Close Upon The Sorrows
by beckyhughes
Summary: After Anna dies in childbirth (with Bates in prison) Charles and Elsie fulfill her dying request for them to look after the child. RIDICULOUS ANGST. Also, "the one where Charles gets a silly nickname."
1. Shadows

**A/N:** ALREADY APOLOGIZED FOR THIS ON TUMBLR. IT WAS A HORRIBLE NIGHTMARE OF A DREAM AND NOW I HAVE TO FIC IT, IT'S ALL YOU GUYS'S FAULT, YOU SAID TO DO THE THING AND NOW I AM DOING THE THING.

* * *

 **September, 1926**

 _ **i.**_

Charles sighed settling into one of the large parlor chairs in their sitting room; the burgundy velvet one he had commandeered as _his_ shortly after they moved in to their cottage. They hadn't retired fully as of yet, she was more so than he, mostly just going up to the big house in the mornings and having the afternoons to herself. He was more reluctant to leave; Thomas was being trained as under-butler as it was and he was more or less managing the evenings without Charles' input. Still, old habits died hard she supposed.

Of course that was then — before. Now they were both at the abbey more than they were home. _Home,_ what a strange word on her tongue, heavy in her mouth, a round, full word. Latent. When Mr. Bates had been properly hauled off to prison, and the realization that he wasn't coming back, that there would be no eleventh hour — not as there had been before, graciously, for them both.

It would have been hard enough, the young couple had already been through it twice before, each having their turn behind iron bars in the mess of it all — but now Anna was left alone, save for the child that would be born before the seasons changed again.

It was this thought that plagued both their hearts as Elsie and Charles settled in for the night. They took their tea, a biscuit or two if Mrs. Patmore had sent him home with a tin, and each reading a book of their choosing by the low lamplight of their little den, in their little cottage, which while still very much on Downton's estate, felt on the other side of the world at times.

She hadn't turned the page of her book in more than a quarter-hour, and Charles sighed again, removing his reading spectacles and closing his book on his forefinger to hold place.

"How was she today?"

Elsie flicked her eyes up at him; of course she needn't ask who, and he need not have said her name. Anna was about the only person they talked about these days, save for the occasional murmurings under his breath about Mr. Barrow.

"It was a rather low day for her," Elsie said quietly, letting her book fall into her lap, indifferent to its closing, "She's up and down enough with the bairn but — of course she's got more on her mind than most expectant mums."

Charles hummed in agreement, "I take it she still hasn't taken us up on our offer . . .?"

Elsie shook her head, "And not because she's not grateful, make no mistake. I think she just wants to be in the house where they lived, together, for as long as she can manage. I think it comforts her to be near his things, sleep in the bed they shared. . ." she felt her face flush, ". . .I suspect she might change her mind after the bairn comes. She'll need help. Anyone would."

"I hope you're right," Charles said, letting his eyes flutter closed. The hall clock struck ten and he yawned, frowning at what he thought might have been a miniscule tear in the fabric covering of the chair, but was in fact just a thread — probably from an afghan, or a dress Elsie had been mending earlier in the day.

"Shall we go up?" Elsie asked, setting her book on the end table and pushing herself up from the settee on which she'd been reclining. She took a few steps toward his chair, offering her hand to him. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, and reached up to take it, allowing her to help him up. Both of them had begun to go stiff with age, and sometimes if they'd gone too many hours reading in tandem, when they finally made to go to bed they would laugh at their mutual groans and creaks as they attempted to stand up.

As they moved through their home, turning down the lamps, switching off all the lights, checking (and re-checking) the doors, the quiet began to envelope them, a precursor to the warm blankets they knew would greet them as they settled into their bed. He let her mount the stairs first so that he might follow behind and run his hand along the bannister, checking for dust. They would quietly ready themselves for bed, their little routine only interrupted by their occasional yawns (his, a rather apologetic one, deep and reverberating; hers, an indulgent, multi-octave oscitancy).

He always hurried to finish before she, which was rarely difficult because between shedding layers of clothing and letting down her hair she had twice the amount of work to do than he. But his motivation for getting into bed before her was not a selfish one; rather, on these autumnal evenings he was insistent that he get into the chilled bed first, warming the sheets so that when she climbed in next to him, her toes would never be at risk of being cold.

* * *

 _ii._

"Have you been eating?" Elsie said, eyeing Anna from across the table in the Bates' small cottage. The young woman looked entirely worn; her face ashen, eyes rimmed with dark, deeply etched circles. She didn't look like a woman who, any time soon, should be delivering a baby.

"Yes," she replied meekly, "I think the baby's just shifted is all. I'm not carrying the same way as I was a few weeks ago."

Her voice was so soft, so tentative, that Elsie had to stop stirring her tea, the clanking of metal against porcelain drowning her out.

"Aye — and I bet you feel a bit better now?"

"I'm sleeping easier, when I _do_ manage to," she said, picking at her plate of dry toast.

"It'll be soon, then," Elsie said, watching Anna's hands flutter away from her plate, settling into her lap. Elsie frowned, but tried not to be glaringly obvious about it.

"I haven't really thought about it," Anna said dully, "I know it could be any time now, really, and I was so excited about it but now —" she shrugged, "Without John it doesn't seem to matter, really. I know I shouldn't say such things. You must think me horrid but —"

"I don't, Anna," Elsie said tenderly, "Sometimes I look at you and am reminded of a line in that American novel, _Little Women?_ Did you read that when you were a girl?"

Anna brightened, and it nearly startled Elsie. It had been so very long since she'd seen any light in her eyes. She practically forgot what it was she'd said that inspired such a glow in the dear girl.

"It's one of my favorites," Anna said, a small smile tugging at her lips, "I've probably read it a thousand times,"

Elsie smiled, "Well, you know the line about how _some people seem to get all the sunshine, others all the shadow_ ," she sighed, then reached a hand across the table, imploring Anna to lift hers and take it. She did, albeit slowly, and when Elsie felt the cool skin of her hand in hers, it made her chest tighten, "But you're a strong woman, Anna, you've proven it over and over again — life seems to have given you a lot of shadow but — you're very dear to so many people. John. The Crawleys. Mr. Carson and myself. . .for someone who has been forced to live in such darkness, you do manage to bring lightness and joy into so many people's lives."

"You're kind to say that, Mrs. Hughes," Anna said, not looking up at her. Then, she rose her gaze quickly, apologetically, "Oh, Mrs. _Carson,"_ she laughed a bit sadly, "I'm terribly sorry. I don't think I'll ever grow accustomed to that."

Elsie smiled, squeezing Anna's hand reassuringly, "I take no offence. I didn't cease to be Mrs. Hughes when I became Mrs. Carson."

Anna did manage a genuine smile at this, but it faded quickly as she heaved a heavy sigh, her hand falling back to her toast.

"I won't leave until you've eaten that, you know," Elsie warned, lifting her teacup to her lips, "I don't care if I have to sit here until midnight."

If Anna had been capable of any cheek, she'd've rolled her eyes, but she simply didn't have the energy. Instead, she just looked pleadingly at the kindly housekeeper.

"Anna, dear, you know I mean it."

"I do know," Anna said, taking a corner of toast in her shaking hand and staring at it a moment before taking a tiny bite that seemed, almost, to pain her.

* * *

 _iii._

She sat on the edge of their bed, bathed in moonlight, listening to his gentle snores. He'd be so mortified to know that he did, on occasion, snore with such strength that it shook her awake. On this night, she'd long been awake already. Perhaps she'd never fallen asleep at all. She'd been restless for the last few days, despite the fact that Anna's mood seemed to have lifted a bit. At least she was running about readily, her appetite seemingly improved and her frequent trips up the well-trodden path to the abbey made Elsie suspect the baby would arrive _very_ soon indeed.

There had been no formal discussion about Elsie being there for the birth; they'd merely had a conversation one afternoon when they met each other in the village after Anna had been to see Dr. Clarkson. It was as though there had been an unspoken understanding between them from the beginning; _why of course Elsie would attend, who else?_

Though she'd not sit with the feeling for too long, lest she smother it, her heart did swell at the implication that Anna trusted her in some small way. Perhaps carried a fondness in her heart for the matronly housekeeper in reciprocity to how Elsie had always felt about the housemaid. Her bright and kind demeanor stood to obfuscate the anguish that hung from her bones like a second skin; a peculiar, grating sensation, as though one's soul was dust, that Elsie was familiar with herself.

She startled at the feeling of a hand in the middle of her back, warmth at the spot where her spine butterflied out into her ribcage. Relaxing against it, she reached up and wiped away the tears she'd only just realized had begun to trail down her face.

"I won't tell you that it's going to be all right because I can't promise you that," Charles said from the darkness, "The only promise that I can make is that I will trust your instincts about Anna. If there's ever a time for one to have faith in woman's intuition, I should think the birth of a child should be it."

She turned, looking over her shoulder and down at him. He had propped his head up on his hand, elbow sinking into his pillow, and he gazed up at her, a slant of light from their bedroom window splitting his face in an odd, ethereal way.

Some people seemed to get all the sunshine; others only shadow, she thought. Then there were those, like Anna, who lit up a room. Others, like the bastardly Mr. Green who only cast others into darkness, sucking the light (and life) out of every scene into which they stepped.

And then there were those who, unwittingly, cast shadows at times onto others simply because they were unaware of how mighty their presence was. Elsie slid back beneath the covers, pressing herself against him; sometimes living in another's shadow was not a terrible thing. Sometimes, to hide was to be safe — and his towering stature at times shielded her adeptly from the unbearable light of her own shame, of her shawl of guilt.

Sometimes, to be consumed by his shadow was the only thing that kept her from becoming the darkness; the only place she could hide from the world and herself.


	2. In Fine Fettle

**A/N:** Tumblr drama aside, I'm gonna keep on with this — poured myself another glass of chianti and ran with it. #NoRegretsJustLove

* * *

 _i._

Charles watched uneasily as Elsie bustled around the kitchen, fraught with nervous energy. Every so often her hand would pass in front of the window above the sink and the early morning sunlight would catch on her wedding band.

"You're wound tighter than a drum," he said finally, unable to take it any longer. She paused, stilling herself, turning slowly toward him from the counter.

"I think it'll be today," she said, biting her lip.

Charles snickered, "That's what you said _yesterday_."

Popping one hand onto her hip, she waggled a wooden spoon admonishingly at him with the other,

"Well, these things _rarely_ happen quickly, Mr. Carson. I'm still within reasonable hours of being _right_ ,"

He sighed, not understanding in the least, "Has Anna. . .done anything to suggest that the. . ." he paused, reaching awkwardly for the word, " _event_ is imminent?"

Elsie shrugged, licking a drop of batter from her thumb, "Not particularly, I can just tell. She's got a look about her. Like when I was a lass on the farm in Argyll; I could always tell when calving was about to start. . ."

Charles snorted, "I won't pretend to know anything about women who are with child but in my very limited experience with _female-kind_ , I would caution you against bovine comparisons even in the _best_ of times. . ."

She threw him a look, but he just sipped his tea, raising his eyebrows at her playfully.

"Who'd've thought you'd've such _cheek_ ," she said, shaking her head slightly. There was a companionable silence as she stirred and he sipped, and after a moment she heard him shift in his chair, setting his cup down on its saucer as he cleared his throat to speak.

"You're not nervous, then?"

"About what?" she asked, reaching for a dishtowel and slinging it over her shoulder.

"The . . .you know, being there when she . . ."

"The _birth,_ " she said dramatically, "Good God, Mr. Carson, it's hardly a _naughty_ word."

"Nor is it an entirely _benign_ one," he said, flattening his palm against the wood of their kitchen table, "I can't imagine it will be anything like birthing a cow."

"I couldn't say," she began, "I'm sure there's still a great deal of mess and noise — though I've never heard old wives tales of a doctor being elbow deep _,_ though that's part and parcel for calving season . . ."

He balked, his face going scarlet, "How _vulgar,_ "

She turned to him, giving a cheeky nod of her head, "I'll refrain from reminding you that _you_ were born of woman, Mr. Carson. Born into mess and chaos, just like the rest of us."

From the table he harrumphed, reaching for his tea again, "People never used to speak of these things, you know. It happened — and was cleaned up — behind _closed doors_."

Exasperated, she turned to him, folding her arms tightly across her chest, "And just _who_ do you think did all that tidying up?"

He blinked, watching as she pursed her lips tightly — trying not to laugh. He lowered his gaze, giving a small shrug of his shoulders, "Well . . ."

" _Hm_ ," she said, turning back to her cooking, "Don't worry," she said slowly, "I won't tell you anything of it that you don't wish to know. Lest I forget you are, at times, as tender as a wee lamb."

"I am not," he frowned, "There are just some things in life that aren't fit for a man to know,"

"Or," she said under her breath, "There are a things a man's _disposition_ isn't fit 'nuff to handle knowing. . ."

* * *

 _ii._

The rapid knocking at their front door jarred them both; Charles' teacup rattled against its saucer, nearly toppling from his hands. Elsie stuck herself with the needle she was threading through an old dress, bringing her jabbed finger to her lips.

Charles squinted at the small clock on the bookcase; "Well, it's just after six. . ." he shrugged, "If that's Anna, I do believe you've managed to be correct in your prediction; and with six hours to spare."

Setting down her sewing and sucking gently on her finger, she furrowed her brow at him, "Ye of little faith," she said, "Didn't you promise me you'd trust my intuition?"

He sighed, picking up his book again, "That I did,"

Padding down to the front door, Elsie wiped her hand on her skirt before opening it. As assumed, Anna stood shaking on their front porch, her eyes wide with fright.

"I thought it might be you," Elsie smiled, reaching to wrap her arm around Anna's shoulders, leading her in from the bitter night air, "You should have rung us. I'm sure someone from the house would have been happy to send a car for you —"

Anna shook her head, "It's not that far of a walk."

"Yes, but how many times did you have to _stop_?" Elsie said knowingly, reaching up to tuck a fallen strand of hair behind Anna's ear.

"Only a few," Anna said, smiling in spite of herself, "It's not that bad yet but — I didn't want to wait until —"

"No, no, of course not." Elsie said, "But why did you walk all the way over here just to tell us? I'd've run right out if you phoned —"

Anna winced, "Might I stay here? I don't mean to put you out — and if I am, say so. I just. . .I don't think I can bear to be. . .in our bed. I just . . .I don't want this memory to be a sad one. I don't want to start this life in a place that is only grief and loss."

"Oh, Anna," Elsie said, taking her hand, "That makes perfect sense to me. The bairn should come into a warm, loving home, surrounded by people who will cherish them. And besides, if you're here, you won't be tempted to flit about like a little hen trying to tidy up after. I simply won't allow it."

Anna gave her a small smile, "Only if it's fine by Mr. Carson. . ."

"What is?" Charles asked. Both women turned to see his head popped round the corner, looking down the length of the dimly lit hallway toward them.

"Anna's going to stay here," Elsie said evenly, "We'll put her in one of the warmer guest bedrooms, closest to ours."

Charles blinked, then, a bit flustered, gave a small nod, "If. . .if you think that's best."

"I do," Elsie said firmly. She turned back to Anna, "Let's get you settled in."

* * *

 _iii._

Charles hovered in the doorway to the kitchen, his brow deeply furrowed, watching as Elsie lit the stove.

"I _know_ I said that I'd trust you on this but — why, again, does the child have to be born in _our_ house?"

Elsie sighed, "The bairn shouldn't be born in a home that has caused Anna so much grief."

"But they'll go back there to live eventually, I don't see what difference it makes."

"No—you wouldn't." Elsie said, turning back to the stove.

"It just makes me uneasy," Charles said, fidgeting as he tried to decide if he wanted to sit down at the table or retreat back into the den.

Elsie scoffed, "And how do you think Anna feels?"

As if on cue, a flood of moans emanated from the upstairs bedroom. Charles winced, "I don't mean to sound heartless, Elsie."

"I know you don't," she said gently, removing the whistling kettle from the stove top, "But she's got enough on her mind, so don't let her overhear you. The _last_ thing she needs right now is to feel like someone else's burden."

Anna's agonized moans continued and Elsie lifted the tray she'd prepared, giving him a knowing look as she passed by the table, "I think it's time you rung for Dr. Clarkson."

* * *

Upstairs, Anna pressed her face firmly against one of the cushy pillows on the Carsons' guest room bed. It was, in fact, one of several guest rooms not yet prepared for actual _guests,_ but the linens were cleaner and of a higher thread count than any she'd slept on prior. She suddenly felt a blaring insecurity at the realization she would soon soil them; perhaps beyond repair. Her body seemed to have begun to move of its own volition, her desire to be in one position over another on the bed, wandering around the room — and most unladylike moans ( _not that she was a lady_ , she thought, certainly she felt she possessed no decorum whatsoever at the moment) made her feel completely unlike herself.

Curled onto her side, she gripped the sheets of the bed, burying her face deeper into the pillow. She almost didn't hear the light rap at the door that preceded Mrs Hughes' entrance into the room. Eyeing the tea tray, she groaned.

"I don't want to be rude — you're being very hospitable but — I don't feel well at all and I really couldn't take tea just now —" Anna said, turning her head toward where Elsie stood.

"Oh, I know," Elsie said, settling into the wingback chair next to the bed, "I've made the tea for myself. It's going to be a long night and I needed a little something to fortify me."

"I'm sorry, I've probably come right as you and Mr. Carson were about to have your dinner,"

"Anna," Elsie chided, "We'd not turn you out just because you went into labor before I managed to put the roast on the table, _good heavens, girl_."

"I hope Mr. Carson isn't too. . . _disturbed_ by all this," she said, shifting her position so that she was sitting upright, a decision that she nearly immediately regretted, as a shot of pain through her lower back made her grip the closest post of the bed.

"He'll manage," Elsie laughed, pouring herself a cuppa, "I've had him ring for Dr. Clarkson. I don't think it will be long now."

Anna settled back against the headboard, trying to steady her breathing, "Have you ever — done this? Well, not _this_ ," she said, pressing hand against her belly, "But, been there? For when it happens?"

Elsie paused, thinking back to her earlier exchange with Charles, "Only with livestock, I'm afraid. Though I promise you I won't be shocked. You don't have to worry about me needing smelling salts or the like —"

"Oh, no, it's not that Mrs Hughes, I just — I was hoping maybe you could give me a vote of confidence. Tell me it'll be alright and all that,"

Elsie softened, reaching over to take Anna's hand, "Well," she said quietly, "If you need to be reminded of how strong you are, that I _can_ do. Gladly."

"I don't feel as though I have any control over this at all," Anna said, her eyes beginning to tear up.

Elsie pet her hand, a small knowing laugh thrumming low in her throat, "Trust your body to do what it needs to do; women have been bringing bairns into the world long before there was anyone to tell them how it ought to be done."

Anna nodded hastily, the pain swelling up again and making her arch her back from the bed, squeezing Mrs Hughes' hand tighter, "Sorry," she mumbled.

"You needn't be sorry for it," Elsie said, sitting at the foot of the bed, "I can't even begin to imagine the pain, and at my age, I wouldn't even want to try."

"Do you ever wish you'd had any children of your own?" Anna asked, then winced slightly — at the pain and her curiosity, "I'm sorry — it's not my place to ask something so personal of you I only — I just want to take my mind off —"

"You've not offended me," Elsie stammered, "No one's ever asked, really," she sighed, "I suppose when I was younger, before I had it in my head that I wanted to become housekeeper one day, I thought it might be nice to have a family of my own. But I, not unlike you, didn't come from a particularly happy one." She reached on the night table for a washcloth, dipping it into the basin of cool water beside it. She wrung it once and then brought it to Anna's forehead, dabbing it lightly, "I think you're braver than I ever was, Anna. I didn't have the heart to take a chance on someone loving me— or letting myself love someone else — until I was far too old to think about children."

"I think you'd've been a lovely mum," Anna said quietly, making an effort to give Elsie a small smile.

"You're sweet to say so," Elsie said, dipping the washcloth into the basin again, "But I've not got the strength you do."

"I didn't have it before John," Anna said, a huff of a laugh escaping her.

"I'd not go so far as to say _that,_ " Elsie said, "I remember you as a young housemaid, one of my charges as it were — and you could hold your own when tested."

"Why _have_ I been tested so many times?" Anna said quietly.

"I don't know," Elsie said, "But I think this night is going to test you in ways you've not been tested before, and you ought to focus on that — and the joy that will come of it when it's through."

Anna sighed, nodding slightly, "I haven't even thought about a name."

Elsie blinked, "No?"

Anna shook her head, somewhat bashfully, "Of course, if it's a boy, I'd name him after John,"

"That's a nice, solid name for a lad," Elsie said, "And for a girl?"

Anna shrugged, "I haven't a clue,"

Elsie thought a moment, "Well, what about the names of the March girls? Do you fancy any of those?"

Anna grinned, "I think they're all lovely — but of course, Jo was my favorite."

"Well, that's a start," Elsie said, "Jo is a term of endearment in Scotland, you know. So, I'm apt to call them that anyhow."

A knock on the door startled them both, and Elsie turned to see Charles somewhat sheepishly popping his head around the corner, trying to look anywhere but in the general direction of the bed.

"Dr. Clarkson's arrived," he said, trying to temper his voice, "Shall I send him up?"

Elsie smirked, " _Yes_ , thank you," she bit her lip to keep from laughing as he shuffled back into the hall, "I think he's afraid if he speaks in his normal timbre he'll scare the babe right out of you,"

"I remember being so intimidated by Mr. Carson when I first came to Downton," Anna said, "Of course now I know he's quite warm when he wants to be."

"That he can," Elsie said, just as Dr. Clarkson came in to the bedroom.

"Hello Mrs. Carson, Mrs. Bates," he said. Elsie looked past him, expecting that Charles would have followed him up.

"What've you done with Mr. Carson?" Elsie said, rising from the bed and smoothing her skirts.

Dr. Clarkson began to undo his scarf, laughing slightly, "He seemed in need of something to occupy his mind, so I set him about finding me some linens and such."

"Bless you, Dr. Clarkson," Elsie laughed, pressing her hand to her chest.

"As my grandfather often said: idleness is a living man's burial."

"Aye, mine too," Elsie laughed, turning back to Anna, "You're in fine fettle, Anna, two Scots to bring your bairn into the world," she turned back to Dr. Clarkson, "Perhaps I should call down to Mr. Carson and see if he can scrounge up some tartan."


	3. A Promise

**A/N:** Well, I was (predominantly) sober for this so it's pretty sobering a chapter; you shouldn't be surprised that I've included something vaguely medical in this chapter. You can rest assured I did my research, too. Am certainly willing to pass that along for any interested or skeptical parties, though I'd think we'd rather not read too deeply into such matters — not in this fic, anyway! I'll leave it to DH. . .

* * *

 _i._

The moon was so full and bright that it bathed the guest room in such light that even as the velvety night descended upon the house, the need for lamps was minimal. Elsie stood by the window, pulling back the drapes, frowning with discontent at the eerily well-lit yard. It gave her an odd feeling, a prickly sensation creeping up her spine; long forgotten memories of Welsh Witches from her childhood, the wind through the trees their cackles.

She turned back to the bed, where Dr. Clarkson sat taking Anna's pulse. Her eyes were closed, her face a tight grimace. Elsie felt pulled back to the bed, an overwhelming desire to behave in some maternal, protective way. She watched as Dr. Clarkson lifted his fingers from Anna's wrist, sighing as he jotted something down in his leather-bound journal.

"Something the matter?" Elsie said, her voice dropping with apprehension. At the sound of her uncertainty, Anna's eyes fluttered open.

"Her labor's just slowed down is all, not terribly unusual in a first baby — and considering the circumstances. . ."

"Is there anything we can do to remedy it?" Elsie asked, lowering herself gently down on the foot of the bed, her hand coming to rest on Anna's leg.

Dr. Clarkson shook his head, tucking his fountain pen back into his breast pocket, "Just wait, I'm afraid. It may be helpful to walk around. Up and down the hall a few times if you can manage it."

Anna winced, "I don't feel as though I've the strength,"

Elsie studied Anna a moment, a feeling of unsettling apprehension pulsing deep in her core. Laying there as she was, she seemed to have gone dim; maybe it was just exhaustion, maybe the pain was becoming more than she could bear — but to Elsie, it was an expression deeply reminiscent of contemplating one's own mortality. She'd seen it in the mirror herself, during her cancer scare. But she'd not have expected to see it on Anna; not now.

"Have a bit more rest and then I'm sure Mrs. Carson can help you up," Dr. Clarkson said, "If I may use your telephone, I think I'll call for Mrs. Crawley. Perhaps she may be of assistance."

"Is something the matter?" Anna breathed, her voice a dry rasp, "Whyever would you bring her here?"

"I suspect that Mrs. Carson here may best bide her time being your champion. But, in that case, I could really use an extra set of hands. And somehow I don't think Mr. Carson would be up to the task."

Anna gave him a nearly imperceptible little grin, "I suppose you're right."

"Charles will show you where the telephone is," Elsie said, nodding to Dr. Clarkson, "Tell him I'll come down in a moment. I'd like to make another pot of tea."

Dr. Clarkson nodded and quietly departed, pulling the door softly shut being him. Elsie looked down at Anna, sighing wearily. The night had worn on, as she'd assumed it would, but she'd not expected to feel so altogether drained, her emotions fraught, her physical stamina sapped. She could only imagine how weary Anna must be; physically yes, but most certainly in faith. How unfair it was that she must, in truth, do this alone. Without her husband, without her mother. She'd been left behind by both, though of course Mr. Bates had never intended to, and had fought hard to remain. But to be forsaken by her mother, and ripped of the one person she'd held so dear, and as a touchstone, was an unthinkable tragedy that made Elsie wonder if God was truly merciful.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Anna whispered, her eyes closing again, head lolling gently toward her as it lay heavy against the pillow.

Elsie hummed, stroking Anna's hair gently, "I _know_ you won't — but in the privacy of my home you are more than welcome to call me Elsie," she said, "The last thing you should be worried about tonight is _propriety._ "

Much to her surprise, Anna nodded, struggling against her fatigue to keep her eyes—which were somehow a deeper blue—open, " _Elsie,_ " she whispered, "I'm remembering Lady Sybil—"

Elsie's heart lurched, "Oh, Anna—"

"I need you to make me a promise," Anna said slowly, her words thick on her tongue, "If — something goes wrong, if something happens to me, _you_ must take the child."

"Anna," Elsie whispered, taking Anna's hand and grasping it tightly between both of hers, "You mustn't say such things—"

"I _must,_ " Anna said, "Anyone with any sense at all would make provisions for their child — most certainly I should, because without me, there would be no one in the world left to love them."

Elsie felt her throat begin to burn with oncoming tears; she couldn't say anything to change Anna's mind of the assumption, because with John locked up and no other family to speak of, it wasn't as if Anna's words were not the truth. Unlike dear little Sybbie, a child born to a _working class woman,_ of _scandal_ , with a father imprisoned and no family — there would be no easy solution?

"You must not let them become a foundling, must not let them go to an orphanage. If you — if you cannot care for them, if something happens to _you,_ to _Mr. Carson,_ promise me you will make sure they are looked after. Perhaps — perhaps by then, Daisy will be grown and married. Perhaps she would see fit to take pity on the child of an old friend. . ."

Elsie wanted to speak but found that sorrow had stolen her voice. She exhaled slowly, leaning down so that she could look at Anna directly, making no attempt to hide her tears.

"I _promise,_ " she choked, "But it's not a promise I want to have to _keep_ , mind you. So get those thoughts out of your head."

"You'll think I've gone mad—" Anna said quietly, a faint smile crossing her lips, "But I almost thought I saw her a moment ago."

"Who?"

" _Lady Sybil_. I'm sure it's exhaustion, my mind playing tricks. But I could have sworn—"

Elsie felt her heartbeat quicken against the wall of her chest; trying to hide the anxiety that suddenly filled her, she looked away from Anna.

"You should have a bit of rest if you can. You'll need it. The hardest work of all is still yet to come," she rose slowly from the bed, "I'm going to pop downstairs and see that everything is tip-top. I'm a bit worried for Mr. Carson; Dr. Clarkson was only going down to use the telephone, so I can only assume they've gotten up to some _minutia_ of mischief. . ."

"I think I'll sleep a bit if I can. . ." Anna said, nodding off. Elsie hovered by the bed a moment, watching Anna's chest rise and fall. Satisfied that she had not lost her in that moment, she stepped soundlessly from the room, leaving the door ajar.

* * *

 _ii._

"What are you saying, Dr. Clarkson?" Elsie said, reaching over blindly to clutch Charles' hand, not caring if anyone in the room noticed. It was just the four of them; Isobel Crawley had come as soon as he'd called, and she now sat in the Carsons' den, the doctor and nurse looking at their hands, Charles looking at Elsie, and Elsie looking anywhere but at him.

"It's probably nothing to be worried about — Mrs. Bates has, after all, been through a great deal of trauma throughout this pregnancy _and_ prior to it. I suspect that she's merely run down and exhausted, which is making it far more difficult a labor than it may be for a woman better prepared, more," he hesitated, " _supported,_ "

Elsie shook her head indignantly, "We're _trying_ to support her, Dr. Clarkson," she said firmly, "But if she's unwell, if she's going to have—" her voice caught, and she cleared her throat, " _complications,_ than perhaps she ought to go to the hospital."

Dr. Clarkson sighed and Isobel looked up then, lifting her head to speak, "It would be unwise to move her now. It's really very unlikely that there will be the kind of complications that. . .would require the kind of medical intervention one would find in a clinic."

Elsie furrowed her brow, "I'm not sure I understand. . ."

"What Mrs. Crawley is trying to say is that — I'm not so concerned about her _physical_ well-being as I am her _emotional_ well-being, Mrs. Carson. There have been. . .studies, reports in medical journals . . .about women—often working women—who have experienced social traumas — not even so bad as what Mrs. Bates has experienced — and _rejected_ the child as a result of it. Sometimes not even outright but — in subtler ways. Their bodies do it, it's not even something that their mind can comprehend, you see—"

"I _don't_ see," Elsie said, "Anna will be a wonderful mother, I know she will —"

"We're not doubting that —" Isobel said, "The concern is that, once the baby arrives, Anna may not be well enough to care for it. Her body is so exhausted, so worn — her milk may not come in, and she won't be able to nurse. She may experience a grand state of depression, making her unable to meet the baby's needs in those early days—"

"We'll help her," Elsie pleaded, turning to Charles, "Won't we? We've always said that we would. Anything we can do, we'll help her."

Charles nodded, but didn't speak. Dr. Clarkson and Isobel exchanged a look.

"It will be difficult," Dr. Clarkson said, "She will need to be carefully looked after. After a woman gives birth, her body tries to return to its previous state — physically, mentally and otherwise. It's an adjustment for _any_ new mother — and we know more now than we ever have before — but I do worry, and . . .pardon my saying so, Mrs. Carson, Mr. Carson— but you would be taking on a _great_ deal of responsibility. Most suitably, Mrs. Bates should be with her parents, if they're alive," he swallowed hard, "I understand that Mr. Bates has no family here."

" _She's_ no family either," Elsie sneered, " _We're_ all the family's she's got!"

Sensing her tension, Charles stroked his thumb along the side of her hand tenderly, soothing her. She settled a bit, pursing her lips as she fought to keep from crying again.

"So long as you understand," Isobel said quietly, "— and I can certainly come by in the first weeks. Help her along if need be. But she _cannot_ be left alone. Not until we're certain she won't harm the child."

"Harm the child?" Elsie spat, "I've heard _quite_ enough of this—"

"She would not do it with malice, Mrs. Carson," Dr. Clarkson said, "And it very well may not happen. I just don't want to take the risk. Mrs. Bates' situation is, _unusual_ and — to be frank — _very_ precarious."

Before Elsie could defend further, a blood curdling scream came from upstairs and immediately, all four of them shot up from their chairs, dashing toward the landing of the staircase. Charles hung back, pulling Elsie's hand a bit too roughly, and she whirled around to face him, her eyes feral and desperate.

"Wait," he said, pulling her close, "Are _you_ going to be alright?"

 _"I will be if you let me go to her,"_ Elsie said, ripping her hand from his and running toward the stairs.

He stood there a moment, a bit taken aback, and then slowly, haltingly, he followed.

 _iii._

Before she even crossed the threshold, Elsie smelled the metallic scent of blood. She instinctively covered her mouth, and thankfully, because as Dr. Clarkson moved to one side of the bed and Anna's state was revealed to her, her utter shock produced a scream that startled everyone.

Isobel murmured something to Dr. Clarkson that Elsie couldn't quite hear, and when she managed to get her wits about her, she crossed the room and lowered herself next to the bed, pressing her hand to Anna's face.

"Anna? Anna — listen, I'm here. You'll be okay, it'll _all_ _be okay_ —" she said, her voice rising with each plea, and it was asking; begging God not to take her, not to take the baby.

She lifted her gaze and saw that Dr. Clarkson had positioned himself at the foot of the bed, Isobel holding one of Anna's legs out of his way so that he could examine her. A shadow in the doorway caught Elsie's eye, and she turned just as Charles stepped into the light.

"What should I do?" he asked weakly, his face blank, voice unsteady.

"Come here," Dr. Clarkson said sternly, "I need you to help Isobel."

"But I—" he stuttered, the wind all but knocked out of him.

"Charles Carson, you do as the doctor says," Elsie cried, meeting his gaze and holding it. With no further hesitation, he purposefully crossed the room, getting his bearings and taking a mirrored position to Isobel's. Then, he closed his eyes as tightly as he possibly could.

" _Good God,_ " Dr. Clarkson said, sitting back on his heels. Isobel leaned down, then almost immediately shot back up, closing her eyes as well.

"What?" Elsie said, " _What's happened?_ "

"She's hemorrhaging; I think, perhaps, she's experienced a uterine rupture," Dr. Clarkson said, his hands moving nearly as quickly as his gaze as he reached for his bag.

"Why? Why would this happen?" Isobel asked, "I've only seen it women with previous pregnancies—"

"It can be the result of scarring; uterine scarring — any number of gynecological traumas," he said, digging through his leather bag for a syringe, "It's far too late to postulate but — I think at one time, in the not-so-distant past, Mrs. Bates may have been — forced, somehow. Attacked. Raped, even."

" _What_ ," Charles said, his eyes opening, boring into Elsie. She only looked up at him pleadingly, her mouth agape.

"Mrs. Carson?" Isobel said, "Are you alright? You look as though you're about to faint—"

"She _was_ raped," Elsie said, "It was nearly two years ago now."

"By whom?" Isobel gasped, "Whyever didn't she come to us for help? Certainly she was injured."

"It hardly matters now," Elsie said, "I made a promise to her —" she looked down at Anna, who was bobbing in and out of consciousness, "Are we going to lose her?" she asked, "Or the child?"

"If the uterus _has_ ruptured, which it seems likely to be the culprit, we'll need to deliver the baby in no more than the next half-hour," he said, handing a syringe to Isobel, then looking back at Elsie.

"She can hardly understand us," she blinked, "How will she deliver the baby?"

"You've got to keep her awake, keep her oriented," he said absently, pressing one hand into Anna's belly as he braced himself against the bed, "The baby's crowned, if she can give a few good pushes, I think we can manage it."

"Anna," Elsie said, shaking the girl by the shoulders, "You've _got_ to stay awake. You've _got_ to have this baby —"

"I can't," Anna moaned, struggling to open her eyes.

"You've got to do it," Elsie said, her voice breaking. Anna mewled and Isobel piped up from Elsie's side,

"Give her a slap — _hard_ — across the face," she said. Elsie looked at her, horrified, but Isobel shrugged helplessly, "We've got to get this baby out, _now_."

Elsie hesitated, then mustered up a peculiar strength in herself, yelping over the sound of her hand against Anna's cheek. She immediately brought her stinging hand to her mouth to cover her crying, looking toward Dr. Clarkson for some kind of clemency.

"Help her up," Dr. Clarkson ordered, "Hold her steady — and get her to push, _hard._ "

Elsie fumbled, trying to hoist Anna up the best she could. The poor woman was like a rag doll in her arms, but more alert than she was before, looking at Elsie with an expression of almost childish bewilderment.

"Come on, Anna, give us one _strong_ push," Isobel said, patting Anna's leg. Elsie flicked her eyes up at Charles, whose face seemed to have frozen in horror. Anna struggled, her arms wound through Elsie's. Bracing her upper body against the housekeeper's, she was taken by a primal strength, and though she howled in agony, she managed to progress.

"Good," Dr. Clarkson said, though he didn't sound convinced of it, "Another — _harder,_ if you can."

Anna's head pressed against Elsie's chest, the fabric of her dress muffling her wails.

" _Good girl,_ " Elsie whispered, trying to blink the tears from her eyes. As she opened them and they cleared, she saw Charles looking at her. He'd not moved from his original position, and he was staring at her as though he was stranded in the middle of the open sea— and she was land.

"Mrs. Carson — take Mrs. Crawley's spot, I need her to prepare swaddling," Dr. Clarkson said, and Elsie gently lowered Anna down against the pillows and moved opposite Charles. Without thinking, she reached across Anna's middle, taking his hand frantically.

"Mrs. Bates — _Mrs. Bates,_ one more and this baby will be born. One more good, strong push."

Struggling upright, Anna pushed herself up on her elbows and, unlike the last few efforts, was eerily silent. Elsie looked up at Charles, who had averted his gaze so expertly that he was only in profile, though she was standing directly across from him. She looked down and watched as Dr. Clarkson deftly gave a small tug — and caught a yowling little girl in his hands.


	4. A Hello

_i._

Dr. Clarkson stood slowly, curling his body over the baby, passing her off to Isobel in one sweeping motion. Then, he turned himself back to where Anna bled.

"She's _beautiful,_ " Elsie said, letting go of Anna's leg and going to her side, "Anna, _open your eyes_ — you have to see her. She's so lovely. You have to wake up and see her —"

Charles stood at the foot of the bed, attempting to process what was happening around him. When he felt Dr. Clarkson nudge his hand from Anna's knee, only then did he move, looking down at the doctor as though he'd stumbled into the wrong house.

"Mr. Carson, if you would, I'm going to need more clean towels," Dr. Clarkson said, not lifting his gaze from his hands. Charles looked over at where Elsie had scooched down next to the head of the bed, brushing hair from Anna's eyes and imploring her to open them.

"I'll go to the linen closet . . ." he said breathlessly, stumbling backwards slightly and into an end table as he attempted to exit the room, the world suddenly spinning around him. The stench of blood, of birth — and something else, something that made his stomach turn — the mildewed scent of death — hung in the air around them.

"Those are some lusty cries your daughter has, Mrs. Bates," Dr. Clarkson said, trying to sound encouraging as his hands shook, attempting to stop the bleeding, "Mrs. Carson— can you rouse her?"

"Anna? _Anna, open your eyes,_ love," she said, shaking her by the shoulders, "No, no, no, G _od no,_ don't take her — don't take her, _please God,_ " Elsie wept, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead.

"The baby is perfectly fine," Isobel said meekly from the corner of the room. Elsie looked up, spotting the small, white bundle in Mrs. Crawley's arms. Her chest heaved and she looked at Anna again, smoothing the fine wisps of blonde hair from her bloodless face.

"Lord, don't take her — _please,_ _don't take her,_ " Elsie whispered, lifting Anna's hand and pressing it against her cheek, "Anna you're strong — _you're so strong_ —"

"Will these do?" Charles said, bustling into the room, his arms nearly overflowing with an array of towels and linens. He stopped short when he saw Dr. Clarkson pull his hands away, standing slowly, bloodied the length of his forearms, to where he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves.

" _My God_ ," Charles breathed, his knees buckling, "But the baby—?"

"The baby is _fine,_ " Isobel said again, her voice faltering, "She's perfect."

Dr. Clarkson took a few steps back from the bed, then turned, covering his face. Charles' stomach sunk at the realization; it was happening _again._

"Why've you stopped?" Elsie said from the bed, picking her head up to look toward them, "She'll come through — she can weather this — she's survived so much _more_ than this —"

"Mrs. Carson, I —" Dr. Clarkson began, his hands shaking, "I _can't_ stop the bleeding. Even if we could get her to the hospital, the nearest blood-bank is in Durham last I knew. She's not clotting and — and as a _civilian physician_ I don't have access to what we used in wartime —" his voice trailed off and he looked at Isobel, turning his attention to the baby in her arms, "She's alright?"

Isobel nodded, pushing the blanket aside from the baby's face, "Ten fingers. Ten toes. Respirations are good. Cries are strong — she's alert," Isobel let out a shuddered breath, "—and look at her _eyes_. . ."

Charles took a few steps closer, peering at the bundle in Isobel's arms. The baby was red-faced, a bit squished and wrinkled from her journey, but she stared up at them intently with the clearest blue eyes he'd ever seen. They were almost violet.

"It's a girl?" Anna breathed. Elsie pressed a hand against her hair, smoothing the sweat-drenched hair from her eyes.

"Yes — open your eyes so you can see her," Elsie whispered. Isobel appeared next to her; it took Elsie a moment to register that she was offering the bundle in her arms to _her._

Reluctantly lifting her hand from Anna's hair, she rose slowly so that she could lower herself properly on the bed, facing the window. Isobel lowered the baby into her arms and her chest ached with sorrow; but also, something else. A feeling welling up in her that she had never felt before and thought, perhaps, she'd never feel again.

The slightest touch of magic.

"She's alive?" Anna asked, her voice practically no more than faint sounds across a haggard breath. Elsie turned slightly, bringing the baby down close to Anna's head against the pillow.

" _She is_ ," she said quietly, running her finger along the curve of the baby's tiny, soft cheek. She lifted her gaze from the bairn only long enough to see that Anna had begun to cry – and was not looking at her daughter, but at Elsie.

"Love her," she rasped, "Love her — how you loved _me—_ "

"Anna," Elsie cried, " _Darling girl_ ,"

"And — go to John. Tell him — tell him that I will _wait_ for him."

The baby began to fuss in Elsie's arms, and a panic began to swell in her chest, stealing her breath, making her suddenly dizzy and afraid, "Anna —"

"Tell him we'll be together again," Anna said, tears streaming down her pallid face. The crying only stood to hasten the struggle of each breath, and hearing her begin to wheeze, Dr. Clarkson came to the other side of the bed, lifting Anna's limp wrist, waiting to see if life would leave her then.

Elsie blinked, looking down at the baby in her arms — who was all at once a stranger and a native of her heart. Dr. Clarkson began to fumble with his stethoscope, his movements suddenly frenzied. Searching the darkness of the room, Elsie found Charles. She'd not been certain where he'd been since the night began. His nervous comings and goings something that she had not been able to follow. No longer merely in her periphery, his downcast eyes lifted, boring into her with dismay and something she could only describe as startled grief. Perhaps he had not known, until now, how much he cared for Anna. How horrified he would be to watch her die.

Or maybe, she thought, as she watched him stride toward her and felt him gather her into his arms, taking her and the baby from Anna's bed, he was agonized at _her_ pain; knowing better than she that once the shock wore off, the inconsolable sorrow of the woman's death would take hold, drowning her — and what would Charles do without her light to guide him home?

 _ii._

The baby had fallen asleep in Elsie's arms as she sat in the wingback chair next to where Anna lay. They had been there quite some time. She could feel the heat beginning to flood in through the window from the sun, so night had turned over into day while she settled into grief. Dr. Clarkson, Charles and Isobel had left her in the silence of the room. There were practicalities to attend to, arrangements to be made. Usually it would be _she_ to take charge, to plan, to fix — but not this night, this day.

She would do nothing but hold the child for now.

A light rap on the door startled her and she looked up to see Isobel ( _and she would call her that, because the nurse had implored her hours ago, as she removed the solid linens from the bed and tenderly washed the blood from Anna's body, not to call her anything but Isobel — for there was no room for distance between them now_ ).

She did not speak as she crossed the room, sitting at the foot of the bed, folding her hands in her lap. For a moment, Elsie found herself wanting to tell her to get up — to not disturb Anna ( _and was she Anna, still? Where was that girl, that woman, now? Was she somewhere eternal where she would wait for John, who would hang one day? Was she still in the corners of the room, trying to find a way to leave?_ ) but instead she said nothing, merely looked at Isobel with an empty, feeble resignation.

"Charles phoned the staff," Isobel said, turning her hands over in her lap, "They will come later to help. Someone will come from the village. Arrangements will be made. You won't have to concern yourself with the details."

Elsie nodded, hoping the gesture was enough gratitude, for she found she couldn't speak.

"Lady Mary is — _shocked_ , of course. Much like the rest of us. But she wanted me to tell you that she will see that everything is paid for. Certain arrangements will need to be made, provisions for the child — she will see that it is done, and in haste."

Again, Elsie nodded. The baby stirred awake in her arms, disrupted by voices or, perhaps, something else. A a deeper sense of loss and aimless drifting. Punching her tiny fists from the confines of her blankets, she began to reach up, turning her head and nuzzling it against Elsie's bosom with a peculiar but graceful sway.

"I— I don't know why — she keeps doing that," Elsie stammered, looking at Isobel helplessly. She almost allowed herself an ever-so slightly bemused laugh, but when she saw how Isobel's face fell, how her eyes welled up with unshed tears, she pressed her lips tightly together and let her gaze fall away.

"She's — _rooting_ ," Isobel said, waiting for Elsie to lift her gaze.

"I don't—" but then, it struck her.

 _Oh God._

 _She wants to nurse._

"Lady Mary has already called for a wet nurse, though it is en vogue for women to supplement with evaporated milk, which we can get you from the village. It's easy to store and prepare, is relatively inexpensive—" Isobel said, the words tumbling from her mouth as though they were a salve.

"I didn't even _think_ —" Elsie said quietly, blinking tears from her eyes.

"The baby will be perfectly fine until the nurse arrives," Isobel said, reaching over and settling her hand on Elsie's forearm, "She's still nourished from the womb, no harm will come to her. Just keep her warm, keep her calm and safe — _that's_ the nurturing she needs now."

Elsie nodded, looking helplessly at the baby, who looked up at her expectantly, her mouth a slack O _._

"If you stroke her cheek —" Isobel said, scooting over slightly so that she could demonstrate, "Or offer her your little finger — like this — she'll latch."

Elsie lifted a shaking hand from under the swaddling, resting her pinky on the baby's petal-soft lips. As if instructed by some unseen force, the baby immediately took her finger into her mouth and suckled happily. It was surely not what she wanted, but for the moment, she seemed pleased enough to offer Elsie a contented coo in return.

At the sound, Elsie did hum a small laugh, marveling in a way it rose up through grief and fear; the night had been so many things — _everything_. A beginning and an end.

The end she could not change, but the beginning, perhaps, she could.

 _iii._

When the sun had risen, the day arrived in earnest, Elsie and the baby moved from the guest bedroom to the master bedroom so that those who had come from the village could begin their work. Isobel had helped her settle into her bed, comfortably propped up with pillows, blankets, and a slightly opened window. The entire house felt stuffy, a pervasive scent filling each room — and though it brought about a chill, she felt that the need to cleanse the air was well worth wrapping the baby in an extra blanket and throwing a shawl around her shoulders.

She let her head rest against the headboard, watching a bird in the willow tree outside their window hopping along a branch. In the spring, she had loved to watch them build their nests, fussing with twigs and grass — and then, one day, she would wake to the sound of chirping baby birds breaking through their delicate little eggshells.

The baby in her arms chirped a bit, too, and she let her head loll away from the window so she could look down at her. She'd mostly slept, but when she was awake, she wanted nothing more than to suckle at Elsie's finger — a pathetic substitute for being nursed by her mother, nourished and satiated, but at least, Elsie thought as she popped her finger into the baby's mouth, she was calm.

"I've brought some tea,"

She looked up to see Charles hovering in the doorway. He'd been trying to keep order since people began to come from the abbey, from the village, and she'd heard him bustling about, barking orders — but had not clapped eyes on him in several hours. She was relieved to see him now, to be alone with him. Or, at least, if not alone (as she was reminded by the cooing babe in her arms) in the absence of others who could speak and interrupt what needed to be conveyed between them through silence and touch.

"Thank you," Elsie said, watching as he crossed the room, setting the tea tray down atop her dresser. He hesitated, his fingers flexing nervously at his sides, as he tried to decide where he should sit.

"Come here," Elsie said, wiggling her toes under the blankets to capture his attention and direct him toward her, permission he sought in the form of the only motion she could make in her current position.

He nodded, lowering himself onto the bed, resting his hand upon her upper thigh atop the blankets. She was surprised, and relieved, when he cocked his head slightly to one side and looked at the baby, the smallest smile twitching at his lips.

"She _is_ beautiful," he said, as though he'd expected her to be as maladroit and blotchy as a newborn calf. Elsie sighed, taking her eyes from the baby's face, but continuing to forfeit her finger.

"Anna liked the name Jo," Elsie said softly, "And I think that's what we'll call her — but, _Jo-Anna_ — for her brave mum."

"That's a most suitable name," Charles said, "And it does suit her; Little Jo."

As if she too agreed, Jo sighed happily in Elsie's arms, beginning to drift into sleep again.

"Mrs. Crawley wanted me to ask if you if — if you would like to have a moment alone with Anna before they — _before_ —" he swallowed, lowering his gaze.

Elsie paused, her chest tightening, "I think I would," she said, "Shall I go now?"

He nodded, "The men from the village — they've come with a car. But you . . .if you go, they'll give you a moment."

"You'll look after Jo, then?" Elsie said, making to pass the baby off to him.

"Do you think I _can_?" he said, almost pained by his own concern of inadequacy.

"Charles, I think you _must_ — _we_ must," Elsie said, lowering the bundle into his arms. She sat back, admiring him a moment. _Oh, how different it things might have been; and here, a sight she never thought she'd see, somehow just as she imagined it would have been._ His hair was grayer, his eyes a bit more heavy — but there he was, curled protectively around the sweet bairn that they were given to love. No matter how it came to be, that was the truth of it; one way or another, God had entrusted a life to them.

Seeming to be momentarily overwhelmed by the sentiment himself, Charles glanced up at her, an endearing nervous look about him. She leaned over, careful not to startle Jo who had fallen into a peaceful slumber, and kissed him tenderly. She pulled back just enough to press her forehead against his, and they sighed in tandem.

Outside, the wind picked up and fallen leaves rustled in the yard, the sound and scent of death hanging around them — but she didn't feel it. His love for her encircled them both, debarring them from decay. It only lasted a moment, but it was enough to strengthen her. As she rose from the bed, letting her hand linger on his shoulder as she passed by him to leave the room, she moved with the knowledge that even as she walked into death's room in their house, she would come back again to his love, and it would be the cornerstone of the backbone she would assemble for herself.


	5. and a Goodbye

_i._

The air in the room was no longer stale, just cold. An austere void that Elsie found herself hovering at the perimeter of. She didn't go first to the bedside, but instead, to a bookcase that lined the farthest wall. It did not take her long to find the book she sought, and she smoothed her hand across its cover as she moved silently through the room, toward the bed where the hull of dear, sweet Anna lay.

 _It's only that_ Elsie thought, settling herself onto the bed. Still, as she rested the book in her lap, she reached a hand to move a few fallen strands of hair from Anna's face. The birds were calling across the yard to one another now. Fully awake and flitting to and fro the willow tree. It was still early, the sunlight not quite pure. Still breaking through the colorful haze of morning. At least it was not the middle of the night; sometimes she woke while it was still dark and the midnight birdsong of summer unnerved her.

Anna's skin was cool against her fingertips as she lowered her hand, flipping to the last few chapters of the book she'd taken from the shelf:

" _There are many Beths in the world,"_ she read, "— _shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind."_

She paused as the wetness bloomed in the ink on the page. She realized she'd begun to cry again. Quickly closing the cover — to spare it— _or herself_ —she wasn't certain— she looked over at Anna before speaking again.

"Maybe you recall that passage," Elsie said quietly, "I bet the first time you read the book— probably you were just a slip of a girl then—your kind heart broke for poor Beth March," she sighed, putting the book aside, "I would have liked to have known you as a child. I'm sure you were a darling; sweet, fair-haired, soft-spoken, bright. Tender—but tough when needed. Strong of heart," she closed her eyes, which had begun to ache, "I remember when you came to Downton. You were so _young_ — and I came to have an affection for you," she smiled sadly, "Charles would say butlers have their favorites of the _family's_ children — and _I'd_ say that housekeepers have their favorite _charges_ ," she reached down, taking Anna's cold hand between her two warm ones, "— and it breaks my heart — " she paused, closing her eyes a moment, "— you were _easy to love_ , Anna. And so many people _should_ have loved you, and did not. And so many people _would_ have loved you, but never will. It breaks my heart, in a way, to know that you knew all along how deeply I cared for you. That I _did_ love you — and yet, I never _told_ you. I suppose I'm glad you understood — but I wish I _had_ told you." She stopped again, her chest heaving with sobs, "That I cared for you and that you were — _you are_ — beautiful, Anna — inside and out—." She sighed, trying to quiet her breaths, "And just as we did after Lady Sybil, we will cherish your little girl. We will love her and care for her and give her every chance at life. I promise you that."

There were so many things left unsaid and Elsie thought, perhaps, she would bear them as nicks on her heart for the rest of her life — but weariness caught her then, and she closed her eyes, imprinting the memory of Anna when she was a young housemaid, vibrant and alive, in her mind's eye.

She did not want to remember her bloodless.

She did not want to remember her bloodied, cowering in the corner of her sitting room.

Of course those memories would always be there — but as she lowered herself down and gently kissed Anna's cheek, the only thing she wanted to convey through the chasm of life and death — was that the love she'd had for Anna would endure in her daughter. And one day, when the girl was grown, Elsie would make certain she knew the woman her mother was: all sensitive strength and vim.

 _ii._

Charles was afraid to move from the bed, sitting still in the same spot where Elsie had passed Jo to him what must have been nearly an hour ago. The weight of the baby in his arms, _not even so much as a cat_ he thought, made him contemplate whether the baby was perhaps a bit small — or he was just a remarkably large man.

He could think of _wine bottles_ he'd cradled with more heft than little Jo.

He had to laugh slightly at the thought, the deep rumble in his chest startling her awake; though only slightly. She'd not really slept since Elsie left, just let her bright blue eyes wander from his face to the window. He was suddenly overcome by the notion that she was seeing everything for the first time.

No _wonder_ her eyes were open so wide.

He waited until her gaze settled on his face again and then, clearing his throat, figured he'd try to talk to her — what else could he do?

"Jo," he began slowly, "Hello. I. . .am Charles Carson. I know —knew?—your mother. We both . . . were employed at Downton Abbey," he stammered on, "Well, you don't know _where or what_ Downton is. But you will. Soon we shall take you there. It's a rather large house, you see. Many people living there. The Crawleys, for one, who cared for your mother very much." He paused, searching her face for any sign of comprehension, but she just continued to stare up at him, unblinking. "Well then — so, as I said. . .I knew your mother very well. Cared for her . . . _very_ _much_. And the woman who was here, who held you first — that —" he let out a shuddering breath, shaking his head a bit, "Is Elsie Hughes — well, _Carson_ now. She's my wife, you see," he couldn't help but smile, the word still so sweet to him, even in grief; maybe especially so. "Now, _she_ cared for your mother perhaps most of all — well, except of course for your _father_ , but — well, that's a story I don't quite yet understand myself, so it would be useless of me to attempt to explain it to you," he furrowed his brow, "It occurs to me that, perhaps, trying to explain _any_ of this to you is futile. You've not even grasped lifting your head, how would you possibly understand language?"

Jo made a noncommittal baby sound, her lips smacking a bit.

"I don't know quite what else to say, Jo. I suppose all I can think to say is. . .well, the world is a _very_ big place — and you, my dear, are very, _very_ small. And if you are feeling apprehensive, or uncertain, than I hope we can quell those fears. Because you won't be left alone. We'll look after you and, I'm sure, come to love you a great deal." he sighed, pressing his finger against Jo's palm. She grasped it immediately, with more strength than he'd anticipated, " I think, perhaps, Elsie already does. . ."

" _I do,_ " came a voice from the doorway. His head snapped up and saw her, a shawl wrapped tightly round her shoulder, leaning wearily against the doorframe.

"How are you?" he asked softly, his mouth agape, finger still in Jo's clutch.

Elsie sighed, padding across the room to the bed and sitting down next to him, smiling sadly at Jo, "They're. . .taking her now," she said simply, "The room will be cleaned up and — well, they couldn't salvage the linens."

"We can get more," he said evenly, still not moving, afraid if he did he'd fracture her somehow.

Elsie lowered her head, "Lady Mary has taken to planning the arrangements. The service. She can be buried here, which is very kind of the Crawleys. I think. . .perhaps they had already offered a plot for. . ." she pressed her lips together tightly, looking up at him. He understood.

". . .and provisions? For the baby?"

She nodded, reaching down to tug at a frayed thread on her skirt, "Isobel said that she will evaporated milk which, apparently, is okay to give her and not very expensive," she looked up, wondering if he would remark at how she'd casually referred to Mrs. Crawley, but he didn't so much as blink.

"We don't have — _anything,_ really," he said, his voice rising, "No bassinet, no pram, no bottles — we haven't even any additional swaddling. Nothing for her to wear."

"I'll sew as fast as I can," Elsie said, offering him a small smile. She reached over and stroked Jo's cheek. At the feeling of a familiar hand, the baby turned her head, pursing her lips hungrily.

"Perhaps Mrs. Patmore would help. Or Miss Baxter."

"I'm sure they would," Elsie said, turning her hand and offering Jo her finger again, which she readily accepted.

"I suppose I ought to go downstairs and oversee . . ." he said quietly, though he didn't move to hand Jo to her. Soothed by Elsie's hand she suckled happily, beginning to drift off to sleep again.

"I think perhaps you should. Lady Mary wants desperately to see you," Elsie said softly, reaching over and lifting Jo up. He was a bit startled by the sensation of his empty arms, devoid of life, of a beating heart. A slight panic rose up in him and he felt his hand drop to her upper thigh, petting it reassuringly. The feeling of her, of her warmth, grounded him for a moment.

She looked up at him peculiarly, and their eyes met.

"The world's shaken again, hasn't it?" he said feebly, turning away as he felt tears wet the corners of his eyes.

"Oh, Charles," Elsie said, leaning her head against his shoulder, "I'll steady you. We'll steady each other."

 _iii._

When Charles entered the kitchen, he was rather taken aback to see not just Lady Mary, but His Lordship and Her Ladyship. They huddled at the far corner of the room near the back door, talking quietly amongst themselves. When he stepped toward them, Robert immediately looked up, breaking away from Cora to come to his side.

"Oh — Carson, my good man. How are you?"

Carson swallowed, "We're — _managing_ , milord," he looked beyond Robert's shoulder to where Mary was coming toward him crying freely, a gloved hand hovering prettily at her lips.

"Carson," she said, and nothing more, just fell into his embrace.

"Where is the child?" Cora asked, coming to Robert's side, looping her arm through his. Robert covered her forearm with his hand, squeezing it gently.

"Upstairs. With Mrs. Carson, milady." he said.

"I don't want to intrude if they're resting— but perhaps I could see her?" Cora asked tentatively, pulling her arm from Robert's, "We've all been worried. We know that Mrs Hugh-" she stopped, shaking her head slightly, " _Sorry_ — Mrs. _Carson_ — cared very much for Anna. She must be entirely distraught,"

Charles sighed, "Allow me to show you —"

"No, no, Carson," Robert said, "Just tell her which door. She can find her way. You, Mary and I should talk a bit."

Charles blinked, but allowed it, "Very well, milord," he turned to Cora, "They're in the master bedroom. It's the first door on your right. I left it ajar when I stepped out, so give a light knock."

Cora nodded, "Thank you, Carson," she said, patting his forearm as she passed him by, lifting the skirt of her dress as she mounted the stairs. Even in grief, the Crawley women traveled in grace.

"Carson," Mary said softly, having composed herself quickly, "I've asked the staff to bring George's things out of the attic. I think most everything that will be needed for the early days is there: a bassinet, clothing —"

"Oh, milady," Carson said, "We couldn't—"

"Carson, no dithering," Robert said firmly.

"Anna was — perhaps my _only_ friend," Mary said, " _True_ friend, anyhow. This is the very least of what I can do for her, considering all that she has done for me."

Carson lowered his gaze, hoping they would not notice his eyes had welled up again.

"We've also found out that there are a few women in Ripon who are willing to sell their breast milk for bottle feedings," Mary said, her eyes steady. Robert flushed slightly.

"They — _sell it_?" Carson asked, tipping his head to one side.

Mary shrugged, "Times are marching on, Carson. And at times like these, their disgrace may be _our_ saving grace."

He sighed, worrying his brow, "I shall mention it to Dr. Clarkson, milady."

Mary nodded, turning to Robert, "I suppose that only leaves one question."

Robert lowered his gaze.

"What's that, milord?" Charles asked.

"Someone needs to tell Mr. Bates," Robert said, pressing his hands together nervously.

"Or," Mary said warily, "rather, we need to decide if we ought to tell him _at all_ ,"

"Whatever do you mean, milady?"

"He is to hang — and soon, so it seems. Would it be better for him not to know? To live his final days in such agony?"

"Surely he'll want to know why she's not come to him?" Robert asked, but Mary shook her head.

"He would never want Anna to have seen him on death row, Papa," she said, " _Least of all_ to be at his hanging. The thought _alone_ would do him in."

"Won't he ask after the child, milady?" Carson said.

"Most certainly— but a photograph would have to do. _Regardless_ of how times change, Carson, I should think the scandal of a baby in a prison cell is far more than Yorkshire could handle."

"What a tragedy," Robert said, shaking his head, "I suppose we should focus, first, on making sure that you and Mrs. Carson — and the baby— are situated. The rest will unfold in due time."

"Carson, what is the baby's name?" Mary asked, "No one's told us."

" _Jo-Anna_ ," he said, "Though, we've taken to calling her _Jo._ "

* * *

"I'm sorry to disturb you—," Cora said, peeking her head into the bedroom. She'd knocked lightly and Elsie had bade her to enter, but still she was overwhelmed with guilt at being at her home. An odd feeling to have, considering they were, for the better part of her life at Downton, fixtures in her own.

"Oh, milady," Elsie said, struggling to stand. Cora rushed in, closing the door behind her and imploring Elsie to sit.

"Please, do not get up on my account. I'll have a seat here," she said, gesturing toward the wingback chair that had been moved beneath the window, "How are you Mrs. Hughes?"

Elsie pressed her lips together and Cora sighed, flustered.

"I'm terribly sorry — that's the _second_ time I've done that today."

"It's perfectly alright, milady," Elsie said, "I told Anna that just because I married Mr. Carson it didn't really mean I'd stopped being _Mrs. Hughes_ altogether," her face fell, remembering the conversation but almost as though it had happened years — _not hours_ — ago. A panic swelled in her chest at the idea she may have already begun to forget Anna. Before she had a chance to run away with the thought, Jo stirred awake in her arms.

"Oh, _hello_ ," Elsie said, lifting the baby up, turning slightly so that Cora might see her face. Jo rested her head happily against Elsie's shoulder, tucking her feet up against herself within the swaddling. Elsie thought, perhaps in her sleepy moments, she thought she was still in the womb.

"She's _darling_ ," Cora said, reaching her shaking hand over to stroke Jo's cheek. Elsie thought she might speak more, but as she flicked her gaze up, she saw a haunted expression wash over her face. Neither spoke, as neither needed to vocalize the loss of Sybil. It hung in the air at Downton, Sybbie's smirks and giggles a constant memento of what they lost. Elsie returned her gaze to Jo, wondering if they would always look upon the little girl as a keepsake of Anna.

"It was of great relief to Mary — _to us all_ — to know that you were with her," Cora said, letting her hand fall from Jo's face. The baby fussed quietly and although she didn't know exactly what compelled her to, Elsie began to stroke her back softly. She could smell the sweet scent of new life against the baby's fine wisps of hair and was relieved. Death had moved along swiftly, leaving only new life in its wake.

"The feeling of loss will _never_ go away," Cora said, reaching down and pulling off her gloves with elegant precision, "There will be days when she floods your memory and it brings you comfort, maybe a little _joy_. But there will also be days where the absence is so stark, _so absolute_ , that you simply drown for a moment or two," she raised her gaze to Elsie's, holding it steadfastly as she let her gloves fall into her lap. She reached over, taking Elsie's hand firmly in hers, "But you _will_ rise up again. You'll look at this child and Carson — and you will find perseverance."

Elsie nodded, though she felt quite taken by the notion that Cora Crawley may well have understood that the space Anna took up in _her_ heart was akin to the shape carved out by the ladies within the walls of Cora's heart. She'd never really considered Cora much beyond an employer; and a fair and just and kind one she was, at that. However, the woman who had come to sit beside her, who gave her hand one final squeeze before she excused herself from the room, fleeing to shed her tears in private, was not so much the Countess, the wife an Earl, the displaced American girl — she was a grieving mother.

Jo squirmed, and immediately Elsie snapped to attention, fearing she'd inadvertently harmed the baby in some way. Lowering her from her shoulder and holding her in arms, gazing down at her, Elsie sighed with relief to see she was quite fine. She let her eyes flutter closed a moment, seeking respite from the swell of emotions, dizzying and stifling. The house had grown quiet around her. She could hear the occasion end of a phrase of Charles', his bellowing unmistakable. A few doors opening and closing almost cyclically; perhaps someone had sent things from the village, or the house. No doubt Mrs. Patmore would have begun to cook fanatically once the staff had heard the news. Poor Daisy— if she was fit to work at all—would be at her side, woefully stirring a bowl as the kitchen bustled around her.

Jo mewled, turning her head inward. Elsie held her breath, watching a moment. The way she turned up her little face, opening her mouth in a quaint rhythm, almost like a little bird, made Elsie's chest begin to ache. Not just with _heartache_ , but with a deep feeling of maternal famine; of utter worthlessness.

"I'm sorry," she said meekly, "I've nothing to give you," she looked up helplessly at the doorway, hoping that there would be an answer soon. When she looked down at Jo again, the bairn had resigned herself to pressing her own tiny fist against her searching lips.


	6. Trust

**A/N:** Hi guys! First of all, many many many thanks to you for keeping up with this fic and your encouragement (and your lovely, lovely fanart etc. over on Tumblr. I'm bowled over!) I just wanted to say, to the reviewers who were like "how could they not tell John?!" THEY DIDN'T DECIDE _ANYTHING_ YET! Sheesh, don't get ahead of the story! Gimme a chance, okay? Did y'all really think Elsie would let them lie? Have a wee bit o' faith, my loves! Also, for those who are just too damn depressed to keep reading — I totally understand, this is a sad fucking fic! But I promise as we move on, for however long we do and I have no idea where this is going or how it will end, I admit, there will be some lovely moments. Less sad as we move on. More awkward Charles Carson baby wrangling and sweet Mummy!Elsie moments. Allright? Now, settle in with your tissues and a cuppa. Let's carry on, shall we?

* * *

 _i._

Elsie sat at the kitchen table, watching in exhausted fascination as a slew of baby-things were brought through the backdoor, filling the room around her, dust wafting from the forgotten objects, dancing in the afternoon sunlight. The day seemed to be stretching itself out into something more exacting. She quietly wondered if there was a word for eons disguised as days.

When the dust had, quite literally, settled around her, she looked up just as Lady Mary was stepping into the room. She and Cora had offered to sit with Jo while Elsie had her tea — which had gone untouched. Mary stepped quietly toward her, Cora following behind, looking at Elsie apologetically.

"She's awake and I'm afraid—" Mary sighed, her words cut short by Jo's adamant fussing. Elsie blinked, not sure what to make of it.

"I think — perhaps — she was unnerved to wake up to someone who wasn't _you,_ " Cora offered, folding her hands neatly in front of her middle, "I hope you had a bit of respite at least?"

Elsie looked down at her teacup, a sliver of uneaten toast. Her mind had rested at least; she'd not been able to think of much at all. It was almost as though she'd burned her brain down to the wick — and now she was trapped in the wax.

"They've brought nearly everything down," Mary said, gently leaning forward to place Jo in Elsie's arms, "I think we'll go back to Downton and . . .well, we'll need to discuss the funeral arrangements."

Settled in to Elsie's arms, Jo relaxed — though Elsie found that the baby's weight seemed to have grown heavier; the burden of protecting someone so entirely helpless beginning to take hold of her.

"If you need anything at all, do phone," Cora said, "We'll return tomorrow."

"Thank you," Elsie said, her voice no more than a rasp. It had been half a day since she'd uttered a word, and her throat was filled with cobwebs and promises.

"I think the only one left here is Isobel," Mary said, "She's putting the milk in your icebox. She'll show you what to do with it before she goes,"

Elsie nodded, "Thank you, Lady Mary. I'm very grateful to you."

Mary smiled, though it was a terse smile — she'd been wary of releasing the grit of her teeth since she'd received the news of Anna's passing; to open her mouth too widely would make way for the scream she'd swallowed.

As Cora and Mary left the kitchen, Isobel appeared as though they were players on a stage briskly making entrances and exits. Elsie's head was spinning from the changing voices and faces.

She wondered where Charles had gotten off to.

"You've enough milk to last her the next few days' feedings," Isobel said, her hair come loose around her face, which was unabashedly drenched in sweat, "We've acquired some breastmilk from Ripon, which you'll need to keep in the icebox — the evaporated milk, however, will keep for quite some time. It's an impressive invention, you see," Isobel said, smiling nervously, "Doesn't carry the risk of bacterial contamination. Like cow's milk."

Elsie tried to nod in acknowledgement but just felt her head bob down a bit. Too tired to lift it, she let her gaze settle onto Jo, a sight that had so quickly become familiar.

"I've washed up and sanitized the bottles and nipples — you know to do that, I'm sure. I don't think there's much I need to tell you," Isobel said, "I suppose if you have questions. . . really, in early days, there's not much to do other than feed her and change her nappies. She'll sleep a lot — though it won't be for long stretches. She'll need to be fed and changed in the night. I'm more than happy to come by and take a few shifts. You and Mr. Carson will be tired."

 _How could I possibly be any more exhausted than I am at this moment?_ Elsie thought, letting her eyes fluttered closed. She heard the chair legs squeaking across the floor as Isobel sat down.

"I'm terribly sorry; I'm overwhelming you aren't I?"

"I suppose it's all a bit much," Elsie said, "I'm 62 years old. Charles is. . . _older._ I was worried about _Anna_ , and she's — was — all that much younger than we are. Now here I am, _an old woman_ , holding a bairn I can't nurse. Speaking about bottles and nappies. Taking the grandchild of _an Earl's_ cradle for her to sleep in," Elsie shook her head in astonishment, "I still wonder if I might wake up; if it's all been just a horrid dream."

"You've had a real shock," Isobel said, "Please don't hesitate to reach out and ask for help. It would have been a trying time for Anna — and it will be for _you_. Even in the best of times, a new baby is exhausting. Even if you _were_ thirty years younger, it would have been exhausting," she smiled, looking down at her lap, "I can tell you that from experience."

Elsie offered her a small smile, "You did well — very well. Matthew was a wonderful man."

Isobel looked up, her gaze a bit stricken. Suddenly Elsie found herself wondering how long it had been since someone had said her son's name.

"Thank you for that," Isobel said, her bottom lip beginning to quiver, "It seems as though we've _all_ lost a child now," she said, so quietly that Elsie wasn't sure she'd really said it. Thinking perhaps she'd overheard something she shouldn't have, she looked down to Jo, who was staring up at her with an expression that Elsie chose to construe as a mix of trust and curious affection.

"I realize, of course, she was not _your daughter_ — not in the sense that Matthew was my son, or Sybil was Cora's daughter — but — I've seen so many young women — young and _rudderless women_ without homes to go back to — take unsavory turns. Living lives that are, at times, so destitute and hopeless that they end their lives by their own hand. I do not know so much as I suppose that _you_ do about Anna, but I think, perhaps, her life would have been very different had she not come to Downton," she reached over and put her hand on Elsie's, "More importantly, come to Downton when _you_ were there to teach her. To take her under your wing. I won't pretend that I understand how things work downstairs— Lord knows I hardly understand how they work _upstairs_ — but one thing I understand perfectly well is what it's like to be a mother, loving a child. I know your life in service did not permit you the luxuries I have been blessed with in my life — one of those being raising a child — but whether or not it was your intention, you provided an invaluable guidance to Anna. I would dare say to even more of your charges — more than you would _ever_ guess. But Anna—" she sighed, patting Elsie's arm gently, _"Anna_ was nearly your protege. Perhaps you believed one day she would succeed you, and that's what made you take an interest. But I have it on good authority that you cared very deeply for her — that you would have done most anything for her— to _protect_ her," she stared at Elsie, her gaze unwavering, "And _that_ is what makes a mother. Mrs. Hughes, there are some women who are given children and do _not_ protect them. Those little ones end up in foundling homes, out on the streets — or the fallen women _walking_ those streets. It is only if there is someone else who steps in and takes that place that those girls get a second chance."

Elsie had believed that she had no more tears to shed, but from some untapped well, they poured out of her silently as she looked away. Isobel gave her arm a firm squeeze, lowering her chin to meet her gaze again.

"What I am trying to say is that you need not worry that you will not know how to be a mother," Isobel said evenly, "Because _you already are_."

 _ii._

"That's quite a lot, don't you think?" Charles marveled. The two of them stood over the icebox, looking at the formidable quantity of milk Isobel had arranged. Jo, beyond simply unhappy at not being fed and now fully dismayed, fussed in Elsie's arms. She rocked her gently, wondering if she'd ever get the chance to put the child _down._

"Shouldn't we start with the breastmilk?" Elsie asked. She watched Charles' face go scarlet and she huffed impertinently, "Oh for pity's sake — _breast, breast, breast!_ There, I've said it. Why don't you have a go? You won't be _smote_ down by the hand of God."

Charles turned to her, his eyes wide, cheeks still flushed — perhaps more so.

"It's a lot to comprehend," he said sheepishly, "It's not even been twenty-four hours and thus far I've witnessed childbirth, the death of someone very dear, had a particularly unnerving conversation with His Lordship, acquired Master George's bassinet for heaven's sake — not to mention the permanent acquisition of a very small infant," he sighed, pinching his prominent nose between his thumb and forefinger, "The very fabric of my life, as I have known it for sixty-five years, is coming entirely _unspooled._ "

Elsie just stared at him a moment. Sensing the change in atmosphere, Jo stilled too, both of them on tenterhooks. Elsie's stomach leapt, and she wondered if he was truly angry. Perhaps he was not going to allow them to follow-through on her promise — _their promise_ — to Anna. Perhaps he would leave her. She'd warned him of this, hadn't she? That he may not want to be _stuck_ with her. Of course he _was_ stuck with her now and they had matching gold bands to prove it. Now there was a child — not of his blood.

Not of _theirs._

Her fears were allayed when he slowly reached down, picking up a bottle. He warmed it between his hands, the slight frost disappearing almost instantly.

"I'll heat a pot of water, we can warm it that way. It can't possibly be palatable _chilled,_ " he said, furrowing his brow at the small glass bottle in his enormous paw. He looked at Elsie a moment and she tugged at her lower lip, waiting.

Looking to the bottle, back to her, and to the bottle again, she saw his shoulders begin to shake. Her lethargic mind raced; would he hand it to her—leave her to it?

Would he _throw_ it?

Then, he looked up at her.

He was _laughing._

Tears wet his face, and she realized that he was laughing and crying all at once. She instantly relaxed, so much so that she remembered she was holding Jo, and lifted her up onto her shoulder, gently steadying her head with her hand.

"How do they get it into _bottles_?" he asked softly, shaking his head in defeat.

She squelched a laugh; it _wasn't_ funny, nothing about this was _funny_ — but she was so knackered, so thunderstruck, so entirely shattered — that she pressed her lips to the side of Jo's face, kissing her as she sweetly stroked her back.

Charles just stared at her, waiting — completely lost, his eyebrows raised so high his forehead was a ripple of wrinkles.

"I haven't the _slightest_ idea," Elsie admitted.

A moment passed between them and then, through their tears, they both exhaled a gentle laugh.

 _iii._

It was Charles' idea to put Jo's bassinet next to their bed.

"She'll wake often, won't she?" he said, his hands on his hips as he caught his breath. He'd moved just about everything from the kitchen upstairs, and though he wasn't the sprite man of his youth, he certainly wasn't unfit for his age.

Elsie hummed in agreement from the bed. Though it wasn't their usual bedtime hour, the sun having hardly dipped below the horizon, all she wanted was for the softness of their bed to receive her aching back and shoulders. Holding Jo was, though she was small, still a bit of stress on her joints — which were not as _well-oiled_ as they once had been.

It had taken them a few tries with the bottle for Jo to get the hang of it. Now on their third go, Jo suckled happily, staring directly into Elsie's eyes the entire time.

"It's almost like she's watching _you,_ " Charles said, his knees cracking a bit as he lowered himself onto the bed, "How do you know when she's had enough?" he said, nodding toward the bottle.

Elsie shrugged, "Either she takes the whole bottle or she'll turn her head away if she's finished," she said matter-of-factly. Charles smiled, though she didn't see it.

Already she spoke with the confidence of a woman who'd bore a _dozen_ children.

In some ways, perhaps, she _had._ Maybe mothering came naturally to a woman who had been tasked with looking out for so many in her lifetime.

A thought struck him then — and an _odd_ one at that, but he followed it, rising from the bed suddenly and going to the the dresser, on top of which he'd laid out his wine ledgers the night before. Before everything had begun to unravel.

"What're you doing?" Elsie asked; not accusatory, just with sleepy curiosity.

"I don't even know what _day_ it is —" he said, flustered. He licked the tip of his finger and began to flip through the pages of the ledger, "Was she born — before midnight?"

Elsie nodded, "Just _after,_ I think," she said, "Although, I'm not entirely certain. I know that they wrote down that Anna. . .that she passed away after midnight. Shortly after the baby was born."

Charles sighed, "Well then. . .today . . .whatever day it may be . . .is Jo's _birthday_ . . .and we ought to make note of that, yes?"

Elsie echoed his sigh; she couldn't imagine how they'd ever celebrate the day when it would also mark the anniversary of Anna's death.

"Ah — all right. Here we are. . .it's September 26th, 1926. A Sunday—" he stopped, blinking a few times, "Good Lord. It's a _Sunday,_ " he looked to Elsie, "We must have kept half of Yorkshire from church today."

Elsie raised her eyebrows, "Well, I won't act as though I'm feeling _guilty_ for it —"

Charles shrugged, "Well then. That's that," he lifted a pen from beside the books and made a note on his ledger, "The birth of Jo-Anna—" he paused, the pen shaking a bit, " _Bates_ , yes?"

"I should think so," Elsie said, " _Unless_ —"

Charles lowered the pen, turning to her slowly, "Lady Mary was not entirely certain that we ought to tell Mr. Bates what's happened. He'll hang before year's end. If the courts follow through, that is."

"What do you mean, _not tell him?_ " Elsie said, " _Of course_ we'll tell him. Anna wanted him to know that she'd —" she paused, not sure she wanted to share with Charles what had been said on the girl's deathbed, "—she'd want him to know that she loved him. That. . .she's asked us to raise their child."

"I just — I suppose I can see both sides of the argument," Charles said tentatively, closing the ledger.

"Well I surely _don't_ ," Elsie scoffed, "Charles Carson if you don't want to be the one to tell the poor man his wife's dead, to keep him from ever laying eyes on his child, than by all means, stand aside. As soon as we're sure the child's well, in a week's time or so, I'll take her to him _myself_. Make no mistake."

Charles lifted his hands in surrender, "I was merely telling you what had been discussed. As I said, I see all sides but I have not yet decided where I stand," he sighed, standing a bit awkwardly now at the foot of the bed, "I only want to do the _right_ thing," he said, "But I can't seem to reconcile what the right thing _is._ "

Elsie studied him a moment, seeing how worn he looked. She sighed, nodding for him to sit down on the bed with her. He did, graciously, and reached up to let his hand settle atop the blankets Jo was swaddled in. He watched with rapt attention as she took her bottle, her eyes fixed on Elsie's.

" _Monday's child is fair of face,"_ Elsie began, her voice a sweet sing-song," _Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for his living. And the child that is born on the Sabbath day — is bonny and blithe, and good and gay."_

Jo cooed, her eyes beginning to grow heavy. Elsie wiggled the bottle away and waited to see if Jo would protest, which she did not. She just nestled deeper into her swadling, yawning widely. Elsie and Charles both tittered a bit at the sight. A silence passed between them as they watched Jo drift off to sleep, and when she had, Elsie turned and lowered her into the bassinet, letting her hand linger there as she turned back to Charles.

"Might I ask you something?" he said quietly, not looking at her. She waited for him to look up, and when he did, the pained expression he wore made her wince.

"You may," she said, worrying her brow. He hesitated, and she reached over to take his hand; one hand in his, the other in Jo's tiny grasp: she, the conduit between them.

"Last night — when Anna was — when she began to struggle and — well, something was said. An exchange between Dr. Clarkson and —" he looked over at her with a grave expression, starting to speak a few times only to find he could not produce a sound. He steadied himself, inhaling deeply, then trying again, "— you said that she was — that Anna had been—" he looked at her pleadingly, and she knew.

"She was," Elsie whispered, not breaking her gaze, "— Mr. Gillingham's valet. Mr. Green."

Charles' eyes widened in horror, " _Oh my God_ —"

"I found her. She'd hidden in my sitting room after — after he'd —" she swallowed, her stomach turning at the memory, "I helped her clean up. Got her a dress. She begged me not to tell. She wouldn't go to the police — and she didn't want John to know."

"But he — is that _why—_?"

"If they'd known — _about Anna_ — the motive would have been clear," she did lower her gaze then, "I don't know if I believe that Mr. Bates killed Mr. Green. But if he _did,_ I can't say that I don't understand _why._ "

"Does anyone else know?"

Elsie sighed, "Lady Mary,"

Charles let out a sharp huff, "The two women who I would have thought would not keep something so abominable from me —" he shook his head, "You've kept this secret? All this time?"

Elsie looked back at him, her eyes damp, "She _trusted_ me, Charles,"

He turned away from her — though he did not let go of her hand, "Yes. Well. . . _I_ trusted _you._ "


	7. Midnight

**A/N:** Hi guyyys! Just wanted to mention a few housekeeping things. First, I hear you on the OOC dialogue in the previous chapter. That was my feeble attempt at the nuances of grief, which often make people act erratically or without their best judgment. I was trying to make a point about the franticness of the discussion, the haste when there needn't have been haste, the chaos in the house. It was clearly not a great way to do that — but whatever. Also, I thought I had alluded to it, but we're to presume Bates is in prison for killing Mr Green — which is why Carson has a bit of an 'a-ha' when Elsie tells him that Green attacked Anna. Suddenly he realizes that perhaps Bates had a motive and it wasn't some miscarriage of justice after all. Elsie, of course, knowing full-well that Bates had motive, quite unapologetically figures she can't blame him if he _did actually murder Green —_ only neither of them have had adequate time to really come to terms with this. I'm only drawing from the only experience I've had in my life where someone was imprisoned for something that no one was ever 100% certain they were guilty of: to believe them innocent when they, in fact, were not was just as difficult to reconcile as the alternative, wherein a guilty man would have walked free. In my own experience, years and years have passed and I'm still not 100% certain of this person's guilt — and in this situation with Bates, where everyone did care about him so much, I would think that they would all be asking themselves what they _really_ believed; and be very uncomfortable with the idea that they might be wrong.

Moving on — because too must justification makes me feel like I'm doubting my process here — the breast milk thing is kind of interesting. In fact, women were selling their breast milk _on the street,_ so to speak, in the 1920s. Formula, particularly in the form of evaporated milk, had become popular. It was easy to store, quite cheap and one of the most well-known formulas (in the US anyway) Simalac ("similar to lactation") was developed during this time. For babies in Jo's situation, these were life-saving alternatives if wet nurses were unreliable or unavailable. They were still present but gradually began to fall "out of style" when women realized they could bottle feed.

I should also say that I do not have children. I am not a mother. I have known a few babies in my life. If anything I say is glaringly wrong, blame internet research. Please, mothers, inform me if I am going astray on baby related activities.

Okay, okay, enough from me! Back to the story.

* * *

 _i._

Elsie had drifted off in the midst of their conversation, and he let her sleep. They were both overwrought, and nothing good would come of an argument when they had unwieldy daggers drawn. Propping his head up in his hand, elbow sinking into the pillows of their bed, he pondered as to whether or not he should lift her hand from Jo's bassinet. It had been several hours. He'd been dozing, but her arm had not moved the entire time. Surely it would bother her in the morning if he didn't liberate it.

He tentatively reached over her body, his arm brushing over her breasts, and gently lifted her arm, tucking it beneath the blankets. He hovered there a moment, then, caressed her hair lightly before letting his hand slip away.

As if on cue, Jo began to fuss in her sleep. Charles peaked over, squinting in the darkness. Seeing that she'd woken, he threw back the covers and quietly crept round the foot of the bed to where she lay. He tried not to look too imposing standing over the crib; in the dark of night no less. If Jo was disconcerted by his presence, she certainly didn't show it.

" _Well_ ," Charles hushed, "Hello again, Jo. It is. . .erm. . .either very late or very early, I'm not sure which." hHe tried to make out the clock on the night table. It wasn't even yet midnight. Elsie had only been sleeping a couple of hours and he didn't want to wake her. Still, he was certain that Jo required _something._

Though, even if he _could_ reason out what it was, that didn't mean he'd be equipped to _provide_ it.

Jo hiccuped, kicking loose of her swadling.

"Oh!" Charles said in surprise, reaching down to tentatively poke her tiny foot back under the soft blankets, "There you are, then."

The baby studied him curiously; her gaze unrelenting. Charles would have expected it to make him anxious. Usually it was _he_ that did the staring. Yet there was something about Jo's gaze that prevented it from being unsettling. If anything, it was compelling. He found himself wanting to look at her, too.

"I suppose this is all rather a guessing game isn't it?" he sighed, "Maybe we can develop a way to communicate. A certain cry for this or that," he paused, tapping his lips with his finger as he contemplated.

From her crib, Jo kicked at the blankets, her fussing increasing such that Charles was afraid she'd wake Elsie, whose sleepy head was mere inches away from the bassinet. He leaned down, scooping Jo from her blankets and into his arms. Supporting her head, which rested against his shoulder, he pet her back gently as they crossed the room. By the doorway there was an array of baby-things, brought from the abbey. Most of it Master George's, which still left Charles with a bizarre feeling of unease.

Having hefted her into his arms, he was relieved at the realization that her nappy was dry. It wasn't even so much that he didn't know how to go about changing it; quite simply, he didn't have a clue where the nappies _were_ amongst the trappings laid out before him.

They made their way through the darkened hallway, down the stairs ( _each one he took cautiously, holding his breath until they'd reached the landing_ ) and into the kitchen. Elsie, _bless her_ , had the foresight to set out fresh bottles for her nighttime feedings. All he needed to do was go to the icebox and acquire the milk.

He turned his head slightly to eye Jo, who had turned her head to look in toward him, her cheek resting against his shoulder. He hummed softly as he moved into the pantry, lifting the cover off the icebox and scootching down slightly to retrieve the milk. Deftly, he straightened himself and closed the lid, quite pleased with himself.

"Well then, we're getting the hang of this aren't we? Perhaps my years butlering have bolstered by baby-carrying ability."

Jo gave what could only be described as _a grunt_ at this, and Charles laughed, taking her back into the kitchen. Since she was quite content in his arms, he didn't have much trouble heating the milk and bottling it one-handed. In fact, he rather enjoyed the challenge of having to maneuver in such a manner. When he'd turned the stove off and turned down the lights, they made their way back to the landing— now, of course, both of his hands occupied — and gingerly mounted the stairs. He was pleased that Elsie was still asleep when the returned, her body curled against his pillow.

He stifled a yawn and Jo fussed a bit as he settled into the wingback chair, " _In a moment,_ " he whispered, "Let me rest my weary bones,"

Lowering Jo from his shoulder, she lay somewhat awkwardly in his arms. She protested, kicking her feet against him, but after a moment of adjusting, she quieted. A slope of moonlight streaming in from the window illuminated her face, her mouth pursed slightly.

"All right then — _well_ — here we are, _milady_. If Elsie was not asleep, I would have _rung the dinner gong_ ," he said, holding the bottle in front of her mouth. She smacked her lips a few times, but didn't latch on, "Whenever you're ready," he said, "No need to stand on ceremony."

A light laugh rose up from the bed and Charles looked up. Elsie had woken and turned toward them, her hands tucked beneath her pillow. Eyes still heavily lidded with sleep, she sighed, nestling her head against the pillow.

"You might have to encourage her a wee bit," she whispered, "And you've got to pop it right in her mouth — if she's hungry, she'll take it."

Charles nodded, then looked down at Jo as he tentatively touched the nipple of the bottle to her lips. It took her a moment, but soon he heard her quiet suckling.

"Well done," Elsie said, "You could have woken me, you know," she pushed herself up, moving a few pillows around so that she could lean back comfortably against the headboard. Settling against them, she yawned again, reaching up to rub her eyes.

"I thought I'd let you sleep," he said, "You were awake nearly twenty-four hours,"

"So were _you_ ," she scoffed, "But I appreciate your efforts,"

Charles gave her a small smile, then looked down at Jo, "I didn't know if _this_ was what she wanted," he said, "Is there a way to tell? Or does one merely guess at it?"

Elsie hummed a little laugh, "Perhaps as time goes on we'll learn — I'd wager you got it right on the first or second go — I'd've woken up if she was wailing."

"Well," he said, quite chuffed, "When I picked her up, her nappy was dry, so I figured the next logical offering would be a very _late_ dinner," he laughed, "Or a very _early_ breakfast."

They grew quiet; nothing but the creaking of their cottage and Jo's suckling filling the room. Elsie pushed the covers down, crawling the length of the bed so that she could sit on the edge of it, directly across from him. She tucked one leg up under her nightdress and let the other dangle off the bed, not quite touching the floor.

Charles raised his head to look at her and was struck for a moment by the way the shadows of the room played tricks on his drowsy eyes: for a split second, the way she was resting her hands in her lap, the shading of her nightgown — it gave the illusion that she was with child. He shook his head and she looked at him with concern. She'd spoken — but he'd not heard her.

"I'm sorry— I didn't quite hear you," he said.

Her eyes widened with compassion, "I know it's late and perhaps, we should just take the conversation up in the morning but —" she bit her lip, smoothing the front her nightgown absently. He watched as the spectre of before, the ghost of what never was, disappeared. She looked up, sighing, her shoulders shrugging slightly, "I _do_ know how topsy-turvey your world's become — not even just in the last day — but — since we _married,_ "

He furrowed his brow quizzically.

"You've had to adjust to sharing a home with someone — not just someone but — well — _me_ ," she said, "You've had a solid year of change and — I thought you were handling it all quite admirably but —" she sighed again, though it was one of pained reluctance, "—if _this_ is _not_ the life you want, I'd hardly fault you for it. I know your hope for this cottage — for retirement — was the joint venture of an inn — which you can still do, of course. But _perhaps_ —"

"Elsie," he said, "I think you were right when you said this is a conversation best left for daylight. We're both so weary —"

"I may not have the courage to say this in the sun," she said, her eyes glimmering with tears. She reached over and rested her hand on Jo's belly, "I won't hold you to the vows, Charles. So long as you go before she's old enough to miss you —"

" _Stop_ , please—" Charles said, "Just _wait_ ,"

She flicked her eyes up at him, unblinking. When his eyes met hers, they were exasperated and a little hurt; yet, still, they looked upon her with softness and ardor.

"I understood completely what it meant to make my vows," he said, "Do you think me daft? Marrying you changed my life in _many_ ways. Small ways and startlingly _large_ ones Did I shy away from your loyalties to your sister? Did I — _have I ever_ given you any indication that I will not honor the life you've made for yourself after all these years? It's not as though our marriage was _evergreen_ ; we are both at the end of making our lives, not the _beginning_. We've both more chapters in our books than there are left to write —" he looked down at Jo, who was still gazing up at him, seemingly interested in the conversation though he knew that was a ridiculous notion, "Elsie. If I may be so bold as to say so — one of the myriad reasons I came to hold you so dear is because of your selfless nature. Your benevolence. It is true that, at times, I did not fully understand or even agree with your charity toward others — but even still, I have always admired it. To forsake you on account of it would be unscrupulous — downright hypocritical."

"And the matter of Mr. Bates —?" she pressed, "Even if you don't _agree_ —"

"I have learned—albeit slowly—that just because two people do not see eye to eye on every matter, it does not mean that they don't care for one another very much. In that same such time, I rather wisely intuited that you a woman of _autonomy_ and I should not set about trying to change your mind. Or—" he sighed, tickling Jo's cheek to rouse her, as she'd begun to nod off mid-feeding, "— your _heart_."

 _ii._

"How many nappies can she go through in a single night?" Charles said, running his hand through his bedraggled hair. He sat on the edge of the bed, still in his pajamas, and watched as Elsie bustled about the room throwing things every which way looking for a clean nappy.

"I don't know," Elsie said, her braid coming loose around her face, dancing in front of her eyes. She flipped the wisps of hair away and stood in the middle of the room amidst the chaos, hands on her hips. Charles looked down at Jo who was perfectly content to be naked in her bassinet, mouthing her fist and giving the occasional tiny kick of her legs.

"I wonder what she's thinking. . ." Charles said, tipping his head to one side as he watched Jo's eyes move slowly from his face, to the window, and back again.

"Oh, _the miner's strike_ * probably!" she deadpanned, leaning over to reach behind the rocking chair that had been moved into their bedroom, uttering a triumphant _a-ha!_ as she pulled a canvas bag of clean nappies from behind it.

Charles did a slight double take, and as she began to fling the cloths over her shoulder— using both hands to count them out— she gave him a slight wink.

"I forget how _saucy_ you are when you've not slept," he said, reaching over and offering his finger to Jo. She grasped it, looking up at him in wonderment. "I'm quite serious! How _perplexed_ she must be. All these sounds and visions — and the light! I can't imagine it. How _dark_ it must be inside of a person."

Elsie pursed her lips around a grin, her eyebrows flaring in amusement, "That's a rather profound thought. The philosophers should have come to _you_ for help unriddling the mysteries of life."

She was giving him cheek— but affectionately. He feigned a wounded expression and she wrinkled her nose playfully at him, turning back to her work. Feeling ignored, Jo whimpered from her bassinet as she stretched.

"Good morning, _Jo-Anna,_ " Elsie sang, padding across the room to the bed. She hovered over Jo, smiling down at her. The baby shifted her gaze from Charles, looking up almost immediately at the sound of Elsie's voice.

"She _knows_ you," Charles said, reaching up and taking a few nappies from where they were draped over her shoulder. He began to fold them methodically— save for one, which he held out to her.

"A few more of your midnight chats and she'll know you too," Elsie said, taking the nappy from him as she looked adoringly down at Jo. She hummed lightly as she went to work, her brow furrowing only for a moment before she made sense of how to fasten it. When she'd finished, she tickled Jo's soft tummy — which the baby pulled up her legs, crossing her tiny ankles, in response to.

Charles smiled, but as he looked up at Elsie's face, his expression grew somber. She wore a look of torment, her face suddenly appearing bloodless; haunted in a way he was certain he couldn't understand.

"It comes in _waves_ almost," she whispered, taking her bottom lip between her front teeth, "In a moment when I don't think of her. . . I worry I'm _forgetting_ her, and it comes flooding back —" she whimpered slightly, flattening her palm against Jo's tiny body, feeling her heart fluttering beneath her warm skin.

"You won't forget her. . ." Charles said softly.

"I don't want to _cry_ anymore," Elsie said, her voice rising suddenly and sharply, aggravated by her own grief. Jo startled, her body stiffening against Elsie's hand. Drawing her arm back, she sat down hard in the wingback chair, her body curling over itself, elbows digging into her knees, her hands catching her face as it fell forward dismayed.

Charles reckoned he was about as alarmed as Jo, though she was considerably more vocal about it. Her sharp wails rose up into the rafters, echoing through the house. Elsie's crying, though muffled through her hands, increased as well — and Charles found himself unsure of who he should take first into his arms.

 _iii._

"The interment will be Thursday," Mary said, pulling off her gloves as she hovered by their front door. Charles offered to take her coat, but she waved him off — turning and hanging it on the hook herself. She sighed, looking up at him with dark, dull eyes. A sight that troubled Charles to his very core.

"I've just put on a pot of tea, milady." Charles said, gently guiding Mary toward the kitchen, "Elsie will be down in a moment — she was just changing Jo's nappy."

Mary smirked, turning coyly over her shoulder, "Strange to hear you of all people talking about _nappies,_ Carson," she said, sitting down, "But I'm glad that you are."

Bringing the tea tay to the table, Carson sat down with a mighty sigh, "I've a lot to learn, milady. I worry perhaps I am too old for such a venture as child-rearing."

Mary reached over and let her hand settle atop his, "You're likely to fare better than we did," Mary said, "Edith, Sybil and me — I mean. Awfully young, knowing so little about life. I would think you and Mrs Hughes would be in a much better position to raise a child."

"Kind of you to say, milady," he said, looking up just as Elsie came in, Jo at her shoulder. She was dressed now — the first time she had been in her _life_ — in a light cotton nightdress that was just a tad too big for her.

"Oh, please, have a seat," Mary said standing, vacating her chair next to Charles. Elsie waved her off, sitting in the chair farthest from them.

"I'll bide here, milady" she said, "I'll need to get up shortly and fix her a bottle."

Mary let her eyes linger on Mrs. Hughes for a moment; she looked almost as though she'd aged a decade in a single turn of the moon. Mary felt a twinge in her chest at the thought. It was not unreasonable to suppose that, no matter how much she and Carson came to love the baby, they simply would not be able to care for her until she was grown up. They may— though it horrified her to even _think_ it—not live to see her as a young woman.

"Lady Mary?"

She looked up sharply at the sound of her name. Mrs. Hughes was eyeing her patiently, "I'm sorry—what did you say?"

Mrs. Hughes smiled gently, "I only asked if you'd like to hold her,"

"Oh," Mary breathed, "Yes — yes, I would. _Very much_."

Elsie watched as Mary painted over her forlorn expression and forced a more contented one. She may not have held the young lady in the same height of affection as Mr. Carson did, but she liked her well enough to feel quite sad to think she'd lost a dear friend — perhaps her only real confidante. She handed Jo to her carefully and watched as a flicker of recognition passed over Lady Mary's face.

"She looks a bit like Anna already," Mary said, confirming what Elsie had perceived, "I would say she has a touch of Mr Bates as well but — it's been some time since I've seen him–" she stopped, shaking her head lightly, offering her finger to Jo for grasping. Lifting her head, she looked at Carson, "The service will be at one o'clock and we will go to the cemetery for the interment directly after. We've already arranged for a headstone from the masonry," she paused, lowering her voice, "— and we've gone ahead and included Mr. Bates as well. . . I hope—" she flushed, a peculiar sight on her pale skin, "— it was the right thing to do."

Charles nodded solemnly, "You've acted _prudently,_ milady."

"You've acted in accordance with what Anna would have _wished_ ," Elsie added, "And so too should we all strive to honor her wishes in regards to Mr. Bates while he's still _alive._ "

Mary exchanged an uneasy glance with Charles.

"She would want him to see his daughter," Elsie said. She turned to Mary, "You know that in his final hour, he would want desperately to see _Anna's_ face — and he can't have that. Not now. The best we can offer him, for the solace of his very soul, is a glimpse at his beautiful baby — which is —" she paused, swallowing hard against her breaking voice, "— all that we have left of Anna."

Jo squirmed a bit in Mary's arms, mewling quietly.

"I _do_ think that you're right," she whispered hoarsely, "Upon hearing you say it, I _know_ that you are. I feel as though — as though the shock has sent us all spiraling. I find that — in the wake of this loss — my mind is racing and it seems that there are so many things that _must_ be done — and to do them correctly is of the utmost importance. To make a wrong decision would — would perhaps jeopardize Jo's life," she stroked the baby's head gently, "And she's innocent — _pure,_ really. None of this is her fault and — I only hate to think that in some way, she'll pay for it all in the end."

"Lady Mary," Carson said, "I can assure you that will _not_ happen."

"How can you be sure?" Mary said, her eyes tearful.

"Because she's got _you_ on her side," he said.

Mary offered him a small smile, then lifted Jo toward Elsie, "I'm terribly sorry — do you mind? I'd like to reach for my handkerchief —"

"Do I _mind_. . ." Elsie said softly, taking Jo into her arms again, pressing her to the safety of her breast, "Come here, _sweet girl._ . ." she pressed her cheek to Jo's, soothing her quietly as Mary dried her tears.

"What will she call you?" Mary asked, dabbing her delicate hankey beneath her eyes. Elsie looked up, her mouth slightly agape.

"What do you mean—?" Charles asked, "Who? _Jo?_ "

Mary nodded, "Had you ever given it any thought?" she held their gaze a moment and when neither responded, she set about folding up her handkerchief, "I'm sorry. It really has nothing to do with me, of course, I suppose I was merely curious."

"No, no, milady," Charles said softly, looking down at his hands, which twitched nervously against the table, "It's a reasonable quandary," he turned to Elsie, "I've not thought about it. Had you?"

Elsie shrugged, "Maybe when I was young, I did, _in the abstract_. But not for a long while. And never with such— _urgency_."

"Well," Mary said quietly, "I suppose in truth there are more urgent matters at hand," she stood abruptly, clearing her throat, "Rest well, all of you. We'll send a car around on Thursday."

"Thank you, Lady Mary," Charles said, making to stand to show her out.

"No — stay," Mary said gently, "I can fetch my coat. You've looked after me for a long time, Carson, and I am grateful for it. But now. . ." she lowered her gaze, letting her hand gently pass along Jo's fine tufts of hair as she passed. "I believe there is someone who needs you considerably more."


	8. Autumn

_i._

Given that their wardrobes were almost entirely black, Elsie thought it rather odd that she found herself standing helplessly in front of her chest of drawers, indecisive about what she ought to lay out and press for the service.

A shudder ran up her spine at the thought. The last two days had gone by so slowly, yet it also felt as though this moment of finality had arrived before she'd had a chance to prepare. _Perhaps one never could prepare for such things_ , she thought, stroking the worn fabric of one of her old dresses. She'd had some of them since she came to Downton, mending them over and over again — spendthrift as she was, on account of so much of her earnings going straight to Becky's carer. It was true that, over the years, the garments had been occasionally too tight or too loose: hanging from her in times of strife and tight around her bosom at others.

She thought about how Anna's body had changed; the way her waifish body had softened, _her_ dresses suddenly snug, the pallor of her cheeks suddenly rosied. Elsie had been sure to bite her tongue, not wanting to get the girl's hopes up. She knew how they'd tried — _for years, they'd tried_ — to have a child, and she merely waited, her eyes widening each time Anna came into her sitting room, or scurried by her on the stairs. Then, one night after everyone had gone up, a light rap on her door. In she stepped, her grin betraying her before she'd ever said a word.

" _Mrs. Hughes," she'd giggled, "I wonder if you'd help me alter some dresses. . ."_

 _Elsie looked up from her desk, folding her hands in her lap so they wouldn't shake with excitement, "Oh? Taken in, or . . . let out?"_

 _Anna bit her lip prettily, "Out," she said, her face brightening. At once Elsie understood, and she rose from her desk, crossing the room and taking Anna into a warm embrace._

" _And how are you feeling?" she said, pulling back, holding Anna by the shoulders, "You're well?"_

 _Anna laughed, "Well enough — nervous. Happy. Relieved!"_

" _And you've told Mr. Bates?"_

 _Anna nodded, "But he's sworn to secrecy. Dr. Clarkson said I should wait before I mention it. A few more weeks to make sure—" she paused, her gaze falling slightly, "— well, in case I miscarry," she looked up at Elsie, her face beaming again, "But I couldn't go home without telling you first. I couldn't wait."_

" _Oh, Anna," Elsie said, her throat aching, "I'm so happy for you and Mr. Bates. You'll never know how much."_

" _So you'll help me — with the dresses?" Anna asked._

" _Of course I will," Elsie laughed, "Maybe I'll give you a few of mine as hand-me-downs, lord knows there are a few I'm bustin' out of!"_

From her crib, Jo began to thump her feet, waking from her nap. The sound was soon joined by her fusses; little whelps that Elsie had begun to figure out were merely her way of trying out her voice. Some — _sharper, louder, demanding_ — meant she needed something. As she emerged from her sleep, however, the little vocalizations were rarely more than gurgles and sighs.

She shut the drawer she'd been digging in and took a few steps toward the bassinet, peering into it to see if Jo had opened her eyes, or if she was merely dreaming. _If wee bairns_ _ **do**_ _,_ she thought.

Indeed, Jo was awake — though still stretching the sleep out of her little body.

"Did'ya have a nice nap then, Jo?" Elsie whispered, tugging the blanket away from where it had caught on one of the baby's kicking feet. Elsie smiled at her, trying to understand how it was that her heart could be aching for Anna and swelling with love for her bairn all on the same beat.

Jo yawned, arching her back and pressing her tiny fists against her mouth.

"Your mother would have been so smitten with you, Jo," Elsie said, reaching down and lifting the baby into her arms. Immediately, Jo nestled into her shoulder, "She probably was before she ever laid eyes on you. . ."

 _Arms full of linens, Elsie mounted the stairs, looking up to see Anna on the landing, frozen like a frightened rabbit._

" _Anna — are you alright?" she asked, lurching forward, afraid that she would see blood. That something would be terribly, brutally wrong._

" _I think so," Anna whispered, her eyes widening. The window above her head made her recent glow even more radiant; luminous, even._

" _Are ye shure?" Elsie said, her voice lapsing into a thicker brogue; the product of raw nerves and faithful regard._

 _Anna blinked a few times, a strand of flaxen hair falling into her eyes, "Only — I think it's all quite real now,"_

 _Elsie furrowed her brow in confusion, but watched as Anna pressed her palm tenderly against the front of dress._

" _Oh," Elsie sighed, relief washing over her, "Have you felt something, then?"_

" _I'm not sure — how would I know?" Anna shrugged, "I only know that — I thought that I might have, and it made me slow my steps. Then, again — and I paused here a moment ago and — I just wanted to see if I might feel it again."_

 _Elsie's face softened, "You might ask Lady Mary. If I knew, I'd tell you but. . ." she shrugged, forcing a smile._

 _Anna smiled back, her eyes heavy with compassion, "Oh — Mrs. Hughes. You'll get to hold her as often as you like. I promise. I very much would like you to be part of her life."_

 _Elsie raised an eyebrow, "Her? You think it's a girl?"_

 _Anna shrugged, looking up at her from beneath her eyelashes, "I'm sort of hoping so. Either way, I'd be happy — just as long as they're healthy," she sighed, her fingers fluttering against her belly, "I already love them, I think — and I don't know how that can be."_

" _ **I**_ _know," Elsie said, hiking the linens into one arm so that she could free her hand, placing it gently on Anna's shoulder, "Because you're her mother."_

Elsie sighed, letting her eyes flutter closed, retreating into the memory a moment longer before Jo began to fuss.

"I'm here, love," she hushed, crossing the room to where she had laid out some of the freshly washed baby clothes Lady Mary had brought from Downton. _How does one dress a bairn for her mother's funeral?_ Elsie thought, sighing heavily as she picked up a few of the garments. The church would be chilly, and certainly the graveyard would expose her to the crisp September gusts of wind that had already set about taking the leaves from the oaks that lined the perimeter. Much of the clothing was made of nicer fabrics than Elsie's own dresses, truth be told, and all were quite elegant — night gowns, baby jumpers, the tiniest shoes she'd ever seen. A pair of cotton of bloomers and a butter-yellow gown struck her.

"No need to drape you in mourning livery," Elsie said, picking up the barely-worn cloth, the silkiness of it between her fingers nearly as soft as Jo's skin. She paused, turning toward the window. It had begun to rain; the clouds opening and water coming down in sheets, streaming down the windows such that she couldn't see through them. Jo thwacked a fist against Elsie's shoulder, the sudden sound of rainfall intriguing her. "You'll be a bright ray of sun in an altogether dismal day, Jo," Elsie said, kissing the side of her head.

 _ii._

They hadn't spoken.

She wordlessly turned her back toward him, lifting up her hair so that he could zip up the back of her dress. She'd wear no corset today. _To hell with it,_ she'd muttered, _I can't breath as it is—why worsen it?_

She could feel his hands shaking as he pinched the zipper, gently guiding it up the length of her back. When he'd reached the nape of her neck, he'd let his palm settle on it a moment, then pet it lightly before he returned to his tie. Reaching a hand over to grab her hairbrush from the top of the dresser, she paused, letting her fingers trail along his arm.

Though they'd been rising to face the day in tandem for the better part of a year, she still felt a surge of vulnerability each time she stood next to him, barefoot and with her hair down. She'd never been one to fuss about her long tresses — to the middle of her back, speckled with enough gray to render her decidedly _older._ A "Mrs." in every sense of the phrase, a _ma'am —_ so many years since she'd been _Miss_ whenbeing handed a loaf of bread at the patisserie.

The truth was, she'd never _really_ been a Miss; even when she was.

He liked her hair let down. She could tell. Many nights they would sit next to one another, each reading a bit before tucking in. If she was particularly engrossed in a passage, she would lean forward ever so slightly, an auburn strand falling in front of her face. Often without even breaking his concentration, he would reach over and brush it back, flipping it over her bare shoulder, letting his hand settle there, gently stroking it between his fingers. Sometimes threading it through, as one might a loom.

She thought of how much she craved that feeling now as she ran the brush through her hair. If she ever had before, it was never with such the intensity as it had become. A longing for something that had been kept secret from her for so many years — now, at her fingertips ( _or his_ , she supposed). Popping a few hairpins between her teeth, she peeked over at Jo, who was on their bed, kicking her legs and gurgling contentedly to herself. Threading another pin through a lock of hair, she swooped it up against the side of her head as she turned, taking a few steps away from the dresser. Jo paused in her wiggling, studying Elsie as though she were trying to figure out where she'd suddenly materialized from.

"You look quite fetching in your little dress," Elsie mused. Then, furrowing her brow, "Though I'm not entirely certain it _is_ a dress —"

"It is," Charles said from the other side of the room. She turned, reaching up to pin the other side of her hair back. He smoothed the front of his tie, "It was Sybbie's."

Elsie nodded, lowering her gaze, "I thought perhaps a few of those items were _not_ George's," she confessed, "A few things looked handmade. _Lovely_ — but —" she sighed, "The _fabric_ gave it away. I figured it must have come from Mr. Branson's family. I can't imagine Lady Mary putting her child into anything less delicate than _charmeuse."_

Charles' eyebrows flared a bit, "Oh — so Jo's inherited some _charmeuse_ then?"

She smirked, "I've not even made my way through _half_ of what they brought."

He sighed, peering over her shoulder at Jo, ever-watchful, "I wondered if you'd put her in mourning colors. . ." he said.

Elsie shrugged, placing the final pin into her hair, smoothing the flyaways with her palm, "She's got the rest of her life to have her heart broken," she said, "We should keep it whole as long as we can."

 _iii._

A heavy mist hung in the air, clinging to the trees, weighting their branches. Standing in the cemetery, bearing the weight of loss, Elsie looked around at how everyone's shoulders slouched, the weight of grief heavy upon them all. Her arms were sore. She'd not put Jo down the entire service, nor on the walk to the cemetery. Standing there now, a light rain spitting at her face, she felt gravity and despair threatening to pull her down into the open grave.

Fear flapped in her chest; a panicked bird of a feeling. She turned to Charles', whose own face was dampened so that she could not say if he was tearful or simply covered in dew. It took him a moment or two to feel her gaze. When he turned to her, she looked up at him pleadingly. He understood, but seemed to hesitate. She watched his gaze flicker toward where the Crawleys stood opposite them. When he looked back at her, she tried to give him a look of compassion but she felt her lip curl up in annoyance. He flushed slightly, opening his arms and allowing Jo to be lowered into them.

Elsie couldn't help but allow a small sigh to escape her. Jo fussed lightly at the change, but if anyone noticed, they didn't lift their gaze from the headstone.

 **Anna May Bates**

 **January 11th, 1886- September 26th, 1926**

 **Beloved Wife and Mother**

Trying not to be too overt, Elsie shrugged her shoulders a few times, trying to release the knots that had welled up under her skin like cysts. She felt a hand come to rest on the wing of one shoulder, and when she looked over she saw that Mrs. Patmore had taken a step forward. She, too, appeared clammy — though her red rimmed eyes gave away her sorrow. Elsie turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder to where Daisy stood, now alone. Dressed in a jet black dress — which was unusual, because unlike the maids the young cook hardly _ever_ wore such proper dress — she looked so very grown up. So very worn and worried — and almost _betrayed_. Not by Anna, but by life itself, which had seemed to give her, too, more shadow than sunlight.

Daisy looked up at her with wide, dark eyes; the light stolen from them like a casually blown out candle. Elsie reached her hand behind her body, and Daisy took it. She pulled the girl up to stand beside her, between Mrs. Patmore and herself, and her quiet sniffles joined the chorus of sounds that had begun to lull her. Light, almost invisible rain dribbling from the tree, the low thrum of voices reciting, _the_ _Lord_ _is my shepherd; I shall not want._ She mouthed the words, but found that she didn't have the strength to bring her voice up to meet it. Across the grave from her, Lady Mary caught her eye. Her mouth was a thin, stoic line and an understanding passed silently between them: a belief that words only brought comfort fleetingly and that they had best save their voices to speak for Jo— until she could speak for herself.

 _Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death_ —Elsie tensed, _and it is a shadow,_ she thought, _swiftly and thoughtlessly cast._ Jo began to squall a bit, and Charles reached down to gently caress her head, pushing the blanket back from her face. Elsie felt a warmth against the side of her own and realized that, from the far side of the graveyard, the sun had begun to come out; only just in time to set again.

The tragedy of autumn days was that they were so short-lived. A season of death, their beauty in the wilting of flowers; the falling of leaves. But with each fatal frost that came again, so did the spring — with fresh life blossoming. Every petal a chance.

The petrichor of precipitation and a freshly dug grave suspended in the air, began to settle against her skin as the vapour of rain had before. Next to her Charles, with Jo still safe in his arms, leaned sideways against her, his arm against her arm. She looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, then flicked her gaze down to Jo, who had fallen into serene sleep, Charles' thumb still gently soothing her forehead.

Elsie lifted her gaze to where Lady Mary had knelt next to Anna's open grave, dropping in a handful of soil, the soft _thumps_ being swallowed by the hole itself as it fell against the , Elsie knelt as well, the ground wetting her knees. _Anna was an autumn day_ , she thought — pressing her palms into the drenched earth, knowing she would never again look the same way at fallen leaves.


	9. Fever

_i._

The rain had picked up again as they made their way through the village after the service. Changing out of her dark clothes, so waterlogged that they left a faint, inky residue on her arms as she peeled the dress off, all she wanted was to sit in front of the fireplace with a cup of tea. Charles, too, was chilled straight to the bone. He'd taken off his jacket to add another layer of protection to Jo's pram. He shook his head bemusedly as he lowered her onto their bed. _She_ was, of course, completely dry, save for a few specks of water that had landed on her cheek when he bent over her. She wriggled away from it, annoyed.

"Pardon me," Charles said, reaching down to wipe the droplets from her face with the edge of the blanket, "There we are, see? No harm done."

Jo sighed, letting her head loll toward the window. Satisfied for the moment that she was calm, Charles stepped toward where Elsie stood in the bathroom, shivering in only her shift. He slid into the room quietly, laying his hands on her hips as he passed behind her. When he arrived at the opposite side of the sink, he made to lift his hands — but she reached down and grabbed his wrist, imploring him to keep them there. Taking a step back, so that he was fully behind her again, he let his arms slide forward, pulling her flush against his body. She sighed, relaxing into him, wrapping her arms around his, around herself, and let her head rest against his chest.

"They gave me her ring," she said quietly.

Charles sighed, letting his chin rest upon her shoulder, "Before the interment?"

She nodded, her eyes opening. She leaned forward, out of his embrace, and raised her hands to begin removing the pins from her hair, "I don't know that they'll allow him to keep it, but I would like to take it with me when I go to see Mr. Bates,"

Charles didn't say anything, only waited. He turned slightly to look over toward their bed, where Jo was kicking her feet, making the occasional indistinct baby noises he'd come to listen for.

"Dr. Clarkson will come by Saturday, and if he gives Jo a clean bill of health, I'd like to take her to Mr. Bates in the afternoon."

"And will you — be going alone?" he asked tentatively, lowering himself down onto the edge of their large, clawfoot tub in order that he might begin to pull off his soaking socks.

"I should prefer company," she said, "Though I understand if you would not want to accompany me. You are, still and ever-more, the butler at Downton. Perhaps the scandal would be too great?"

Charles shrugged, "I wasn't concerned about _that_ so much as how you would wrangle Jo and your grief simultaneously." She paused, a pin pulled from her hair halfway, and turned to him. He cleared his throat before he continued, "Besides, Lady Mary's gone and done it— what's stopping _me_?"

"Nothing, I suppose. Except perhaps your own _pride_ ," Elsie said, turning back to the small looking glass on the wall.

"I was . . .very fond of Anna," Charles said, his voice wounded, "And I certainly did not dislike Mr. Bates. They were both a welcomed presence at Downton which will not soon, or ever, be wholly filled," he stood, dropping his dripping socks into the tub, turning to her as he wiped his hands on his slacks — futile, since they too were quite wet. "But I did not ask you for _Mr. Bates'_ sake. I asked because. . .I worry about you. About Jo. I'm not so proud that I'd let you go there alone if you were frightened to do so."

She paused, lowering her gaze, "I'm sorry, Charles. I didn't mean to be unkind."

Jo began to fuss, and they both turned toward their bedroom, eyeing her, listening hard.

"She needs a bottle," Elsie said, dropping the pins she held in her hands into the sink. She made to tend to Jo, but stopped when Charles laid a hand on her shoulder.

"I'll go," he said quietly, "Have a bath."

"Charles — I _am_ sorry."

He sighed, "Apology accepted— though it was hardly required. You know me better than I know myself," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek, "I would certainly feel better if you did not go alone. But, I shall leave it up to you."

"Thank you," she said, reaching up to pet his cheek before he pulled his face away, a slight hop in his step as he made his way to the bed. She tucked away the smile that tugged at her lips, watching him leave a little trail of wet footprints on the hardwood floor. The fire snapped, beginning to warm the room and she knew that by the time he returned with Jo's bottle, the footprints would be gone; no trace of him left. The thought disturbed her, clenching around her heart. She lifted her head, looking into the mirror and studying the reflection that stared back at her. Exhaling slowly, she gripped the sides of the sink until her knuckles went white. Then, she allowed a torrent of tears to come, rivaling the storm that raged outside.

 _ii._

"Had you ever done this before?" Charles called to Elsie from the foot of the bed. She was soaking in the tub, the steam rising up and curling the tendrils of her hair.

"What's that?" she called back, running a bar of soap the length of her arms.

"Bottle feeding," he said, "I think I've gotten the hang of it. Jo seems to have— though, I wouldn't have thought it would take so long for her to _finish_ it."

Elsie laughed, "Well you _don't_ want her to guzzle it, I can tell you _that_ much," she sighed, letting her head lean back against the towel she'd propped up at the nape of her neck, "I'd not bottle fed a bairn or anything else, no — though when I was a lass there were a few lambs who needed a bit of help from time to time, and we'd have to encourage them to nurse." She turned, pulling herself to the edge of the tub so that she could see where they sat at the foot of the bed, "She's got a few cries that sound like a little bleat," she laughed, "Don't you Jo, _my wee lamb_."

Charles chuckled softly and Jo gazed up at him, her quiet suckling an unexpectedly sweet, reassuring sound to his ears. He heard the sloshing of water as Elsie lifted herself from the tub and stole a glance at her. She was his wife, so he shouldn't have felt like a schoolboy, but the intimate glimpses of her that marriage afforded still managed to give him the most delightful tingling sensation. He watched as she wrung her hair out, then, twisted it, letting it drop over her shoulder, the fringes hovering at the swell of her breast. Not that he'd seen many women's naked bodies — certainly not so _close,_ and certainly not learned them by his own hand — but hers reminded him of art. The first time he had never seen her, in the low light of the very room he sat in now, he remembered a book he had once read on Titian's work — and how _The Venus of Urbino_ had both horrified and fascinated him at first blush. The way the woman in the painted stared straight out from the canvas (or the page, as it were, when Charles first laid his own eyes upon it), the way her hair fell softly over her shoulders, framing her pert breasts. The gentle swell of her lower belly, the way her hand lay gently at her center, curled almost invitingly. He had often wondered if women's bodies, beneath all those layers of clothing, of shifts and corsets, really looked anything like that at all.

Elsie had; though in the flesh she was more compelling than any painting he'd seen, more striking than any statue in London's museums, which he'd flocked to since he was a boy. Her hair he knew was soft not because of the fine brush strokes, but because he could feel it between his fingers. The rise of her breasts real not because of careful shadowing, a trick of light, but because they delightfully filled his hand. The way her soft, warm belly pressed against his middle, his back, her heartbeat against his skin — the feeling of the weight of her not something imagined, but felt. Not rendered—but real. To him. To them both. And he still, even after a year ( _even forever, even always_ ) he would marvel at how, when he pushed into her—with the ease of a key fitting into a lock it knows well— the feeling of coming home filled them.

"Charles?" she said softly. He blinked, realizing she'd sat down next to him on the bed, a house dress, something gray and nondescript, covering her. Her hair was still down, still wet, but now that the fire roared at their feet, it would soon dry. He looked down at Jo, who had fallen asleep mid-feeding, a bit of milk still left on her lips.

"Should I wake her up?" he asked, taking the bottle from her mouth and handing it to Elsie, who settled it carefully between her legs.

"I think we should let her sleep," she whispered, "She's had a long day. We _all_ have."

Charles nodded, but didn't move. "I think I should like to hold her a while longer. . ." he said.

"I imagine she'd like that very much," Elsie replied, leaning her head against his shoulder, "Lady Mary was right, you know."

"Hm?"

"We've got to figure out what she'll call us." Elsie sighed, lifting her head and reaching down to tickle Jo's foot, which was poking out from her cocoon of blankets.

"I suppose it depends on what we choose to tell her. When she's little, anyway. What happened to her parents. . ."

"We've got a few years to mull that over. Figure out how to tell her so that she won't feel somehow guilty about it." She pursed her lips thoughtfully, "I suppose she ought to just call us Charles and Elsie, right?"

Charles laughed, "I've known you for over twenty years and only _jus_ t started calling you _Elsie_ ,"

"That's true," she said, giving him a small grin, "We're not really her _grandparents_ , though."

"No," he said, "And I may not be young but I'm not _old,_ and I certainly don't feel old enough to be _grandpapa,_ " he chuckled, "Though maybe if we don't say anything at all, she'll just give us names."

"Like little Sybbie calling His Lordship _donk_?"

Charles snorted, "True. Perhaps we should give her _some_ guidance."

"What did you call your parents?" she asked quietly.

"Mother and. . .well, I don't think I ever called my father anything besides _sir_."

Elsie nodded, "I think, perhaps, _that's_ a bit too formal."

"What about you?"

"Mam and Da," she said, then grew quiet, "Becky didn't call them anything— she always called for _me._ "

"It seems to me that you did a lot of mothering where Becky was concerned,"

"Maybe," she said softly, "But I wasn't her mother. And I'm not Jo's."

Charles sighed, rocking the baby gently, "Perhaps not, but until we're gone — she's stuck with us."

 _iii._

Elsie woke with a start.

The rain had finally stopped or at the very least was so light it no longer tapped against the window. She struggled more fully awake, realizing as she attempted to sit up that her legs were entangled with Charles'. Pulling hers gently through, she swung them over the side of the bed and looked down into Jo's bassinet.

She was fast asleep, so it hadn't been her crying that had woken Elsie up. Nor had it been the rain, nor even Charles' snores — which were thankfully, nonexistent at the moment. She reached her hand down and stroked Jo's face — but stopped short when their skin touched.

She was quite _warm._

Elsie felt her breath hitch and she livened, reaching a hand behind her to pull at Charles' nightshirt.

" _Wake up,_ " she said, "Charles—" she rolled back onto the bed, hovering over him, "Wake up!"

He sputtered, his body jerking as he woke, "Wh- _what is it_?"

"Jo's warm," she said, but she turned away from him, springing from the bed, so fast that he didn't hear her.

"What?"

Lifting Jo from the bassinet, Elsie pressed the baby's cheek against hers, "I think she's feverish."

"But —" Charles said, struggling to sit up, "She's not even a week _old,_ "

"Feel her," she said, her voice high-pitched and panicked. She settled back onto the bed, Jo squirming awake, and held her out to Charles, who brushed his fingers against the baby's cheek.

"Maybe a _bit_ warm, but—"

"Turn that lamp on, would you?" Elsie said. Jo began to fuss, protesting being woken up. The light flickered on, bathing the room in yellow light, and they both squinted down at the baby, who squinted up at them indignantly.

"Does she look flushed?" Elsie said, turning her body toward the light. Thoroughly annoyed, Jo cried out, reaching up and taking a handful of Elsie's hair in her fist.

"I—I don't know," Charles said, still trying to stretch his eyes awake, " _Maybe?_ A little?"

"Call Dr. Clarkson," she said, "Or Isobel, even — whoever you can get at this hour."

Charles squinted at the clock on his night table. It was just after one in the morning. Lifting his weary body from the bed, he padded down the hall to where their telephone lived. He made a point of using it infrequently, still someone miffed by the technology at all — but in moments like these, he was grateful for its existence.

"Yes?" came a sleepy voice from the other end of the line.

"Dr. Clarkson, this is Charles Carson speaking. I'm sorry to wake you. Elsie's just woken up and she's concerned the baby might be running a temperature."

"No, no, don't apologise," Dr. Clarkson yawned, "You've done right to call. She's warm to the touch?"

"A bit, yes."

"Has she been taking her bottles? Wetting her nappies?"

"Yes but — well, yesterday was rather a long day for her."

"For all of you, I should think," Dr. Clarkson said, for he too had been at the service, "She may have caught a chill from the rain. Or perhaps is even a bit dehydrated. Let me get dressed and I'll come by."

"I hate to trouble you—"

"Mr. Carson, you're truly not. You best get used to making these frantic phone calls to me. Little children are wont to be ill at the darkest, quietest hours of the night."

"Is there anything we ought to do until you arrive?"

"If she is feverish, it may help to lay her on your bare chest — or Mrs. Carson's," he said, though he swallowed the words a bit, "Often times the best antipyretic is the mother's body, which encourages the baby's temperature to return to normal."

"Yes. Well. We'll give that a go."

"I'll see you soon, Mr. Carson. Don't fret."

Hanging up the phone, Charles sighed before mounting the stairs in the dark. He could hear Elsie hushing Jo before he ever stepped back into their bedroom.

"I rung Dr. Clarkson and he's on the way," Charles said, "But he did suggest that we let her lay on one of our bare chests. Apparently our normal body temperatures will encourage hers to lower, if she's indeed feverish."

Elsie looked up at him, her eyes tearing up, "I can't believe, _of all things_ , we don't have a thermometer."

Charles softened his gaze, "It'll be alright. We'll get one."

"I didn't even _think_ of it—"

"Elsie, it'll be fine," he said, sitting down on the bed. She looked entirely fraught. He reached up and began to unbutton his night shirt. "Here," he said, exposing his bare chest and leaning back against the pillows, "Give her here."

Elsie blinked, having not really registered what he'd said before. She reached down and gently undid the swaddling, lifting Jo out of it and settling her onto Charles' chest. In just her nappy, and chest to chest with the burly man, her eyes seemed to widen immediately. Tentatively, Charles lifted his hand, stroking her tiny back with his fingers. Elsie lowered herself back down into the bed, so that her face was a few inches from Jo's.

"Now what?" Charles asked, "Do I just — do we just let her _sleep_ like this?"

Elsie curled one hand under her pillow, reaching the other up to gently stroke Jo's nose, "I suppose we just wait for Dr. Clarkson," she said. A moment passed between them and Charles tucked his chin so that he could look down at Jo who, while still awake, did seem to be drifting back to sleep now that the room had quieted around her. They lay there until the three of them had dozed off, only to be woken by the clap of the front door.

"Mr. Carson?"

Elsie lifted her head at the sound of Dr. Clarkson's voice, reaching for her housecoat, "I'll go," she said and quickly disappeared from the room. When she returned, Dr. Clarkson in tow, she folded her arms across her body and hovered at the edge of the bed. Charles blushed.

"Well done," Dr. Clarkson said, his voice sincere and reverent. He sat on the bed, lifting a few items from this black bag, one of which was a thermometer.

"We need one," Elsie said quietly, "We hadn't even thought about —"

"It's quite alright," Dr. Clarkson said, reaching for Jo's nappy, "You certainly weren't expecting any of this, and you've performed admirably." He sighed, waiting for the temperature to result, "You're doing a fine job."

Charles and Elsie exchanged a look, and after another moment, Dr. Clarkson looked up smiling.

"She's just fine — just at 100 F — within the normal limit and considering the day she had, understable. We don't call it a fever until it's over 100.4 F."

Elsie sighed, relieved, "She's not ill then?"

Dr. Clarkson, "If she's still taking her bottles and wetting her nappies, you've nothing to worry about. If she stops either, however, or is fussier than usual, develops a rash — anything of that sort — then there would be cause for concern."

"I might just be losing my mind," Elsie said, reaching up to wipe a fallen tear from her cheek.

"New parents are _always_ overwhelmed, Mrs. Carson," Dr. Clarkson said, "You've behaved just as any other new parent would. I can't tell you how many of these house calls I make in the early days," he looked down at Charles, "And, as I mentioned earlier, it will only happen more as she grows up. School aged children share more than their toys, I'm afraid."

Elsie smiled, "Thank you, Dr. Clarkson."

"I'll be back on Sunday. I can do a more through well-baby check up then, though I'm sure she'll pass with flying colors."

"I'll walk you downstairs," Elsie said. Charles gave her a nervous look, then, interpreting the offer as a chance for her to ask Dr. Clarkson about taking the baby to the prison.

They reached the front door and Dr. Clarkson paused to put on his coat and hat. Elsie bit her lip before she spoke up.

"If she's well on Sunday, I should like to take her to see Mr. Bates," she blurted. Dr. Clarkson paused, his hat halfway to his head.

"I see," he said, lowering it, "I suppose you're asking me if I think it's safe?"

Elsie nodded, "It wouldn't be for long — but he should be able to see the child. It's his only child, and all he's left of his Anna,"

"I understand," he said, "I only wish that there was another way. A prison is _no_ place for a baby, or a child."

"I know," she said, "But I feel very strongly that this is the right thing to do."

"I would agree," Dr. Clarkson said, "But at the same time, of course, I worry." He sighed, "I would caution you to exercise great caution. Wrap her warmly, there will be a draught. Be mindful of the sounds, the sights — she may be quite startled. And as much as it pains me to say it," he paused, lifting his hat to his head again, "Do not let Mr. Bates hold her for _too_ long."

"Do you think there's a chance he could — he could spread some disease to her?"

Dr. Clarkson shrugged, "I worry less about the baby and more for Mr. Bates," he said, turning toward the door, "Because the moment he sets his eyes on her, holds her for the first time, he'll fall in love with her as fathers do — and giving her back to you, knowing he will not see her grow up, will be as though someone has ripped his heart clean from his chest."


	10. Light

**A/N:** Only to say that yes, Queen Elizabeth II was born in April of 1926! :)

* * *

 _i._

"Mr. Bates won't even notice what she's wearing," Charles said, leaning against the window as he watched Elsie struggle to choose between the few dresses of Jo's she'd laid out on their bed. He held Jo against his shoulder, rocking her gently. He thought she was asleep, but when he looked down at her and saw her big blue eyes staring back, he thought perhaps she was giving him a rather exasperated look.

"I know that," Elsie said, her fingers hovering nervously over one of the garments, "I'm more concerned about what will be easiest to clean if it's soiled — or what we can stand to part with if it's ruined."

Charles swallowed hard, "Oh," he said, his voice no more than a whisper, "I suppose I hadn't thought about that."

She sighed, "That's why God made woman, my dear. To think about all the things men never do," she turned and gave him a small smile over her shoulder. He took it, turned, and passed it on to Jo, who looked up at him curiously.

"I thought he made woman to wrangle these itty-bitty creatures," he pressed his cheek against Jo's, wiggling happily as she reached a hand up to his face.

"What do you think?" she said, holding a garment toward him, "It's nice — it's _all_ nice — but it's the most boyish of the bunch, so perhaps she won't miss it."

Charles took a few steps toward the bed, "I suppose,"

Elsie blinked, "It's that a yay or a nay, Mr. Carson?"

"Well, I don't know that it _matters_ ," he sputtered, "But I _do_ know that we ought to get going if we want to be back to have Sunday dinner with Mrs. Patmore who, I will remind you, so kindly offered to cook for us," he sighed wearily, "And I could really use a nice roast dinner, couldn't you?"

She smiled, "Very well," she leaned in to kiss Jo's head, "You're going to meet your Da, Jo. And I'm sure we could present you to him in a burlap sack and he'd still think you were the most beautiful bairn the world's ever seen," she lifted Jo from Charles' arms, humming softly as she set about changing her into the little nightgown. Charles took the freedom of his hands to quickly wash his face and put on a nicer shirt — though not his nicest, lest he rough it up somehow — and returned to the bedroom just as Elsie was hoisting Jo back into her arms.

"Ready?" he asked, clapping his hands together.

"Ready as we'll ever be," she said, her face darkening.

"You don't seem certain that you're doing the right thing," Charles said, taking a few steps toward her, "You still have time to change your mind."

"It's not that," she said, "I just worry about what Dr. Clarkson said," she pressed her lips against Jo's soft cheek, "It won't hurt her, do you think? She won't possibly be able to remember any of this when she's grown—"

"I shouldn't think so," Charles said, "It was my understanding this was about Mr. Bates, not Jo."

Elsie sighed, letting her eyes close for a moment, "Aye, it _isn't_ about Jo," she whispered, "and I think that's what troubles me so."

* * *

Walking into the prison felt akin to what it felt like to walk into the wrong cellar, except infinitely more foreboding. The darkness was disorienting, and as she progressed down the front corridor, Elsie felt her eyes struggle to adjust from the sunlight outdoors. The guard had instructed them to leave the pram in the foyer, and as such, her arms held Jo tightly to her bosom. Charles walked beside her, so close that there could not have been more than an inch of space between their bodies, and since she could not take his hand, he placed his on her lower back, easing her down the dank hallway.

"Wait," snapped a crisp voice. It was more of sound than a word; a warning. A tall man loomed over them; in truth he was just as tall as Charles, but there was no kindness in his presence. Although Charles appeared unbothered, Elsie felt her stomach flip.

"Undo the baby's blanket," he said, nodding to Jo.

"I beg your pardon? Elsie said, furrowing her brow.

"I've got to look 'er over, make sure you're not smuggling in any contraband."

"Are you mad?" Elsie said, "The baby is only a week old — and more importantly, what kind of people do you think we _are?_ "

"Elsie—" Charles started, pressing his hand into her lower back.

"Just unwrap 'er swaddling, please,"

"She'll catch a chill," Elsie said, "It's perfectly frigid in here."

"Ma'am, I _won't_ ask again. And if I call the police sergeant, he'll undo it 'imself and you won't get that blanket back in any state fit for a baby."

Elsie swallowed hard and looked helplessly up at Charles. He only shrugged. _What could they do?_ Reaching down and beginning to peel the blanket away from Jo, she immediately protested, the chilled, damp air harsh against her new skin.

" _There, there, lamb_ ," Elsie hushed, "You're alright."

"And 'er nappy."

Elsie's head snapped up, "What?"

"Undo it. I've got to confirm there's nothing in it, on the underside."

Heat rose so fast up her neck, into her face, that she thought she may faint. Her lip curled up in disgust and the anger that filled it was so visceral that it nearly choked her.

"I _won't,_ " she said, "I won't let you _manhandle_ her like that,"

"Ma'am, I'm only trying to fulfill the duties of my post," he said, looking up at Charles, "Surely you know what that's about, aye mate?"

Charles opened his mouth to retort, but then gently closed it. Elsie looked up at him, her eyes wide and savage.

" _Charles?_ " she said — more of an exclamation than a question.

"I'll hold her," he said quietly, reaching over and plucking Jo from her arms before she could protest. He pressed the baby to his shoulder and held his hand against her head to steady it.

"Go on then," he said, nodding to the guard, "Be quick about it."

Elsie yelped, then covered her mouth with her hand. The prison guard reached over and lifted Jo's dress, unpinning her nappy. She protested, her sudden wail sending a chill down Elsie's spine that seemed to travel along every nerve in her bod..

"There, that waddint so bad was it?" the guard said, his face softening. He wrote something down on the small pad he had in his breast pocket, then nodded to Charles, "I _am_ sorry — I'm only following orders. I didn't mean to disrupt her sleep," he gave Elsie a small smile, "She's a priddy fing. I've got a houseful at home. Five, numba six onda way."

Charles nodded, looking to Elsie, whose eyes were brimming with tears. He frowned, a bit confused, and decided to gently lift the blanket from her hands and wrap Jo up himself in lieu of tasking her with it.

"Thank you," Charles said to the guard, "I understand there's an office we are supposed to meet Mr. Bates in?"

The guard shrugged, "Not so nice as that but, yes — fis way if ya would please."

When Charles looked down at Elsie, he saw that she'd turned her face from him. The guard walked ahead, flanneling with his ring of keys.

"Elsie?" Charles said softly, "Are you alright? What was that all about? The man was only doing his job. If we were _those kind of people,_ a baby is a perfect ruse for smuggling things. And Jo's fine, a bit miffed but she's alright now." she didn't speak and he sighed, which she felt but couldn't hear over the loud _clink_ of the prison's large iron door being opened. "I just don't understand,"

"No," she said quietly, reaching up to wipe a few fallen tears from her eyelashes, "You _wouldn't._ "

They trudged wordlessly down the hall and had Charles not been so concerned with what could have possibly come over Elsie, he would have been _more_ disturbed by the filth that surrounded them. The floors were nothing but soot, cement and stone and there was a distinct scent of rank piss in the air. He instinctively pressed Jo tighter against himself, but she protested, not wanting to be held quite so tightly.

"Jo, I'm sure this is the first of _many_ times I shall utter these words unto you but _this is for your own good,_ " he said quietly, lifting the blanket up higher on her back. They rounded the corner and there was a table with a few chairs in the middle of a stark, dimly lit room.

" 'ave a seat, we'll bring him 'round." the guard said, nodding to the hard-backed chairs. Charles sat down immediately, but Elsie hesitated, looking back toward the corridor as though she were afraid they may lock her in.

"Elsie, sit," Charles said, but his voice was kind. She gave one last longing look to the hallway and then joined him at the table. Jo fussed in his arms.

"Take her?" Charles asked gently, looking over to Elsie, who stared somewhat absently at the wall.

"What?" she said, seeming to return to him from somewhere far away.

"I think she wants your arms," he said gently, turning to lower Jo into her arms.

"Oh, _wee lamb_ ," Elsie said, her face brightening almost imperceptibly, "Hello, little one."

He wanted to ask her about before, but he didn't get the chance. A voice behind them made them both startle.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carson,"

They both turned and saw John, wedged between two guards, his hands and ankles in shackles. He looked so much older than when they'd seen him last. His hair soiled. He hadn't shaved and his face was sallow and sooty. He shuffled into the room, the guards wordlessly at his side, and looked at them almost apologetically.

"Pardon me but . . . I would have thought you two were a bit _beyond_ your childbearing years," he grinned, "Still; please do introduce me," The guards lowered him into the chair but didn't step away. They stood beside him, hands folded in front of them so it appeared that all three men were in handcuffs.

"Mr. Bates," Charles said, then cleared his throat, " _John_ ," he swallowed, looking over at Elsie, who was staring at Jo, her eyes brimming with hot tears.

John's face fell immediately, and if he'd had a sinking feeling before they arrived, he was drowning in it now.

"It's Anna," he said, "What's happened?"

The both hesitated, and when John's eyes flickered down to the baby, they watched as heartbreak split his face, and he crumpled into terrified sobs.

"Oh God, no, _no, please God,_ " he said, "She's dead? _She's dead_?"

"But the baby lived," Elsie said, "This is your daughter," she lifted Jo just slightly, turning her and moving the blanket away from her face, "She was born a week ago today. Perfectly healthy."

John's mouth hung open, his eyes wide.

"Anna was . . .with us," Charles began, "She came to us when the time came. Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Crawley were also in attendance. They did. . .everything that they could."

" _Oh my God_ ," John said, trying to lift his hands to his face to wipe his tears, but with the restraints it was a futile effort, so they fell freely, "What happened?"

Charles sighed, "There were complications. A lot of bleeding."

John paused, trying to take it in. "But — did she live long enough to see her? To see our beautiful girl?"

Elsie nodded, "She did — and she asked me to tell you that — that _she'll wait for you_ ,"

John blinked, "Oh, _my Anna_."

"She loved you so much, Mr. Bates. Truly she did," Elsie whispered. Jo began to whimper and Elsie turned her attention from John to the baby, offering up her little finger to quell her.

"Knowing the situation at hand, Anna asked. . . _us_ to look after your child," Charles said evenly, tapping his hands nervously on the table, "Now, I know you might have expected, or even preferred, otherwise — Lady Mary, perhaps—"

"No," John said simply, "I'd prefer no one else to you to raise her if I cannot," he looked longingly at Jo, tears hovering on his lips as he spoke, "Have you named her?"

"Anna wanted to call her Jo," Elsie said, "But we thought . . .Jo-Anna,"

"Jo-Anna," John said, a small smile emerging, "That's lovely. Really. _Jo-Anna._ "

"The Crawleys have been very kind," Charles said, "They took care of the arrangements and have helped us to get settled in."

"Please give them my sincerest thanks," he said, "Particularly to His Lordship. I hope that. . .that I am able to see him again before. . ." he looked down, his shackles clunking as he moved his hands against his lap, "You'll look after her then? My little girl?"

"We will," Charles said, "And when we are no longer able, we will see that she is properly looked after and provided for."

"And you'll _love_ her?" John said, his voice breaking.

"We already do," Elsie said, "And she'll know that you did too. And Anna."

John lowered his eyes, the tears falling from his cheeks, the tip of his nose.

"I don't suppose you'll be allowed to keep it but. . . they gave me Anna's wedding band," Elsie said quietly. She looked up at the guards but they did not look back at her, merely stared straight ahead.

"You'll find mine in a box, next to our bed, in the cottage," John said, trying to compose himself. He took a deep breath, "Please, take it, and put them both on a chain. Give it to Jo-Anna when she's old enough to fall in love."

Elsie gave him a small smile, "I will, Mr. Bates."

John turned his head up to the guards and the helplessness, the groveling, made Charles' stomach turn.

"Can't I hold her?" he said quietly.

"No. You're cuffed." the guard said simply.

"Can I — can I kiss her goodbye?" John asked, looking back at Elsie, "If she just — comes round to this side of the table. I'll lean down. I just want her to know me."

The guards exchanged a wordless glance, then, one of them sighed.

"Fine. Ma'am, bring the baby around. Stand right there and don't step any closer."

Elsie stood but Charles slowed her, standing up and taking her by the arm. He lead her over to John's side of the table and the closer they got, the harder the poor man cried.

"When you kiss her," Elsie said, kneeling down, her knees cracking audibly as she did, "Smell her hair, the top of her head — you'll never smell anything so sweet."

John looked up at her tearfully. _Gratefully_. And leaned down, kissing his daughter tenderly.

" _Jo-Anna_ ," he said, "It's _so_ nice to meet you."

 _ii._

Their walk back from the village was one of silence. The wind had picked up and although Jo was tucked up in her blankets, lulled into a sound sleep by the sound of the pram's wheels passing over gravel and dirt, Charles felt the chill of winter pinch the tip of his nose. He reached a hand up to rub it, eyeing Elsie sidelong. She hadn't spoken and he'd not pressed her, but now that they were a half mile out of town toward home, he wanted to know what she'd been thinking earlier.

"What troubled you so, in that moment?" he said, reaching down to cover her hand where it grasped the pram, slowing his steps so they could walk more in tandem

" _Which_ moment?" she said, her voice tinged with exasperation.

"Before we saw him. The guard thinking we were sneaking _cigarettes_ or the like in via Jo's nappy,"

Elsie stopped walking and he lurched forward a bit. Taking a step back, he looked down at her, feeling her grip the pram tighter beneath his hand.

"Elsie?" he said, "What is it?"

"I don't know precisely _why_ but — it made me remember the night that Anna was hiding in my sitting room. After she'd been attacked. I — left her there a moment. Went to find her a dress. To tell Lady Mary she'd gone to bed with a sick headache. When I came back — she was curled up against the wall, curled so tightly against herself — and she was bleeding. Her dress was ruined. I thought at first that I would try to help her stand, but she hardly could. She was in so much pain, but she was trying not to show it because she knew I was upset. So, I sat down on the floor next to her. I helped her clean up. But I saw — I saw where he'd — _ripped_ her dress. Her knickers," her voice faltered and she closed her eyes against the memory, "I couldn't protect her against men like that — and — at the prison, with that guard — I know it sounds ridiculous but — it was almost as though someone flipped a switch in my mind and — suddenly I grew so afraid that I won't be able to protect Jo either,"

Charles exhaled deeply, suddenly wishing he'd waited to ask until they were home so that he could have climbed into bed with her — held her against him, let her cry. _Let her remember._ Instead they stood in the middle of a well worn path, with one life behind them and one directly ahead, and all he could do was reach a hand over and thumb tears from her cheeks. She looked up at him, gazing into his eyes with her wide, wondering ones. He tried to look back at her with nothing but love, but he saw his own fear reflected in hers.

He wanted to reassure her that they could protect Jo from the world's evils, but he knew to say so might make a liar out of him one day: they would certainly try their best but if life had shown them anything, it was that no one was debarred from tragedy.

 _iii._

"She practically _begged_ to come along," Mrs. Patmore said, nodding toward where Daisy stood sheepishly behind her on the Carsons' front porch, her arms draped with baskets.

Elsie smiled at the girl, "It's so nice to see you, Daisy."

The girl smiled, "I didn't beg, _I swear it—_ she begged me to help her carry all this," Daisy said, giving Elsie a small grin, unsure if she was really permitted to be in cahoots with the housekeeper. She was secretly chuffed when Elsie gave her a tiny wink.

"Daisy, here, put these in the oven, let them crisp up — and put these in a pot to simmer," Mrs. Patmore said, setting her baskets down on the counters. She huffed, turning to Elsie, "Now, for the love of God, let me see this baby everyone keeps nattering on about. Her Ladyship says she's prettier than _Princess Elizabeth_!"

"I'm just about to give her a bottle," Elsie said from the stove, testing a drop of milk on the back of her hand. Charles looked up, and Mrs. Patmore caught a look of envy on his face.

"You'll get the next one," Elsie said, giving his arm a squeeze as she passed by him, "Lay out the table, would you?"

He nodded gruffly, turning to Daisy, "Well, I suppose you fancy being cook while Mrs. Patmore heads upstairs?"

Daisy blinked, "I —I don't know, Mr. Carson."

Charles laughed gently, "I'm merely _teasing_ you, Daisy."

"Oh," Daisy said, furrowing her brow, "I don't think I've ever heard of you teasing anyone, Mr. Carson,"

"Well Daisy, a baby in the house has softened me round the edges," he said, crossing the kitchen to their china cabinet, "But don't you _dare_ relay that to Mr. Barrow."

* * *

"She's got a look of Anna about her, 'asn't she?" Mrs. Patmore said, shaking her head lightly. Elsie reached down and lifted Jo from her bassinet, settling into the rocker they'd placed next to the window. She gestured for Mrs. Patmore to sit in the wingbacked chair next to her.

"She does. Though, when I saw Mr. Bates today I could really see him in her, too." Elsie said, lifting the bottle to Jo's mouth.

"How is he? Poor man," Mrs. Patmore said quietly, "I can't even begin to imagine the horrors. . ."

"Nothing he'll face in there could be worse than finding out he'd lost his wife and won't live to see his daughter grow up on the same breath," Elsie said, "After that I should think the gallows will be a _relief._ "

"I don't know how he could stand it. How anyone could," Mrs. Patmore said, "Which leads me to ask. . .how are you and Mr. Carson weathering all this? I've worried about you."

"We're carrying on," she sighed, "We've got to, really, for Jo."

"Are you frightened? I'd be terrified to try to look after a baby at my age. Hell, I'd've been terrified _thirty years_ _ago_!"

Elise gave her a small smile, "Having Charles makes it less so," she looked at Mrs. Patmore with a sideways little grin, "I don't know that I could have done it alone."

Mrs. Patmore chuckled, "Well, I guess it's a good thing he finally _married_ you," she slapped her knee, "Honestly, I thought he'd go to his grave without ever telling you how he really felt."

Elsie blushed, "I suppose I'm to blame as well. Surely I could have said _something_."

"Ach," Mrs. Patmore shrugged, waving her hand dismissively, "You know how he is — tradition in human form!"

"I do feel a bit bad," Elsie winced, "He's had so much change this last year and he's withstood it admirably but . . ." she shook her head, "I don't know. I suppose I worry that his heart just won't be able to stand it."

"He's stronger than you think," Mrs. Patmore said, "Stubborn — yes. A bit hidebound. But one thing you can't fault the man for is his loyalty."

"That you can't," Elsie said, lifting the bottle from Jo's mouth and setting it on the small table next to her as she lifted Jo against her shoulder, rubbing her back gently.

"You know as well as I do that once he's decided to dote on this child, that'll be that. She'll be in for life."

Elsie looked up, furrowing her brow thoughtfully, "Sometimes I wonder when _I_ wriggled my way into his heart and stayed there,"

Downstairs clattering of dishes made them both turn their heads, stilling their bodies to listen.

" _I'm sorry, Mr. Carson!"_ piped up Daisy.

The two women exchanged a nervous glance — even Jo seemed to be waiting on baited breath, blinking attentively up at Elsie.

 _"No harm done, Daisy,"_ came Charles' voice, _"But let's have a look at your hand — did you hurt yourself on that dish?"_

 _"It's only a tiny cut, Mr. Carson— but I'm so sorry about the dish—,"_

 _"Dishes can be replaced, the hands of young cooks on the cusp of realizing greatness cannot."_

Mrs. Patmore raised her eyebrows, pursing her lips against a laugh.

"I'll be damned," she said quietly, craning her head so that she could look at Jo's face, which was nestled against Elsie's neck, "In a week's time you've made a daddy out of ol' Charles Carson," she watched Elsie sooth Jo a moment longer and it made her smile fade ever so slightly.

"Mrs. Patmore?"

She sighed, "The kindest hearts, really. _Both of 'em_. Why did the world have to go and give them such a hard time? At every turn, it seemed." she looked down at her lap, "I'll miss that girl, truly, I will. And I know Daisy's heartbroken." she nodded toward Jo, "One day you'll have to tell _her_ all this. Relive it, even."

"If I live long enough to," she said, "Charles and I are getting on. We've got to figure out where she'd go if we — if something happened."

"You know why Anna asked you, though, don't you?"

Elsie shrugged, "I should hope because she trusted I'd be true to my word—"

"You were a mum to her. The first injustice the world handed her was giving her parents that were wretched," Mrs. Patmore said, reaching a hand out, letting it settle gently on Elsie's arm, giving it a light squeeze, "And don't try to tell me that you didn't love her at least a _little_ , because I _know_ that you did and I hate being lied to."

"I worry," Elsie started, her voice catching, "I worry that I won't be able to protect Jo from that darkness that seemed to follow Anna wherever she went."

Mrs. Patmore shrugged, moving to stand, "One step at a time," she began, "A wise woman once told me you've got to _keep these things in proportion_. If you're in the dark you set about finding yourself a light," she gave Elsie a soft look, "But you've got to be ready to face whatever's been hidin' in the dark behind you."


	11. Warmth

**A/N:** I swear I have _no idea_ when or why the smut came up but. . .yeah, this one is rated **M** for " _remind me I have a soul_ " sexytimes? Yeah, I don't know, I went a little apeshit with the astronomical analogies. Also, time jump — and from here on out there will be occasional hops forward because there are so _many_ things we need to experience as Jo grows up and it'll get much more interesting when she learns to talk!

* * *

 _i._

 _December, 1926_

The first few months of Jo's life were largely spent sleeping.

When she was awake, she was exquisitely alert and had such a rich presence that though she was tiny, she was never unseen.

Elsie felt as though winter had arrived early in Yorkshire, a chill settling into her when Anna had passed and not leaving. By the time the first snow fell she had already been bracing herself for the cold. She had more or less retired, but the hunt for a replacement housekeeper meant she was still doing quite a bit of bookkeeping; although, she could do that while Jo napped. She was relieved to be off her feet, however, and though she didn't want to admit it to Charles, the way her body had begun to ache from age was always worse in the colder months. He had resisted leaving Downton, though it had become quite clear that Thomas Barrow would prove a capable successor. Lady Mary had promised a bit of money each month to help with Jo's care — a generosity that made Elsie a bit uncomfortable, but not enough to demand Charles not accept the offer.

His Lordship had, however, made Charles promise that he would only spend his evenings at the abbey if he was specifically asked; the truth was, they were entertaining less and less and there just wasn't often need for special arrangements. Barrow could handle the family's meals just fine on his own. Usually, Charles could don his hat and set off on foot for home as soon as afternoon tea had been served. His overseeing of such daily activities was less out of necessity than a force of habit. The only thing he was still truly responsible for—much in the same way Elsie was the keeper of the books—was the wine cellar. It was, perhaps, the pinnacle of his success in his butlering career and he was not only proud of it, but attached to the artistry it afforded him. He was, if anything, a connoisseur, and until he could build up a respectable collection in their home, Elsie knew she would have to share him with the pull of the that secret hiding place.

As she did most mornings now, she lay awake in bed long after he'd left to go up to the abbey. He'd put more wood on the fire before leaving and although their bedroom was toasty, she found it hard to drum up the resolve to leave their bed. Although Jo was sleeping more or less through the night, Elsie was _not_ ; or, at the very least, it seemed that whatever sleep she managed to catch was never enough. She was working less, had more time to languish and linger.

Jo, who would be three months old at Christmas in a few week's time, was by no means a hassle for her. As far as Elsie could tell, given her limited experience with infants, Jo was a very good baby. She ate well, slept well, was happy — particularly at the end of the day when Charles returned home — and with each day that passed by, she grew into her features, looking more and more like Anna the longer one looked at her pretty little face.

Elsie rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets with her. Charles had been gone for at least an hour, but it was still dark outside. She always felt a bit down in the dark, cold months. It was as though she had to work twice as hard at everything because the world around her stole light, stole warmth, leaving her feeling exasperated the minute her feet in the floor when she rose from bed. Of course, all the years spent downstairs at Downton had not been so dissimilar. There were weeks of her life as housekeeper where she couldn't remember seeing the sun at all. Still, when she was working all her days there was a grander sense of purpose. She was caring for a house. For her charges.

 _For Becky_.

She sighed, closing her eyes again. It wasn't as if she was without purpose now. If anything, raising Jo had _saturated_ her with purpose. But running a house was never so high stakes as looking after a child, and she suspected that even after the long career she'd had, if she bungled raising the girl, nothing could overcompensate for such a monumental failure.

The thought of letting Anna down brought her to tears several times a day.

It was a good thing that Charles hadn't retired. If he knew how often she dissolved into tears! She had been reduced to sobs more times in the last season than she had in all her life, and it wasn't something she understood or even _wanted_ to understand. It wasn't as though she'd never felt grief before, never been choked by some great loss. Why this was different, other than Jo of course, she couldn't fathom. And as much as she hated to admit it to herself, there were times when she looked at Jo and it moved her to tears without reason, without warning. There were moments when she had to lay her in her crib and walk away for a moment to compose herself, and it felt like failure.

It wasn't the bairns fault, any of it. Yet, at times, Jo's purity was utterly terrifying. The potential for harm seemed so great, a misstep by either of them and she could end up —

She groaned into her pillow; that's quite enough of that. She could hear Jo stirring in her crib, the swishing of her little feet under the blanket. A yawn. She'd begun to mimic their voices, trying to find her own, and Charles found it all rather amusing. He told her stories, harkening back to his rarely spoken of stage days, throwing his voice in all manner of ways. Jo laughed — _oh and that sound_. It nearly made Elsie's heart swell beyond measure, that little sound. And now, of course, so too did the baby smile regularly.

She lifted her head, pushing herself up to look over at Jo. The baby kicked happily, cooing when she saw Elsie's face peeking over the rail of the crib.

"Good morning, Jo," she yawned, waving her fingers. Pulling herself up, she stretched, yawning widely as she threw her legs over the side of the bed, swinging them a bit as she leaned forward, resting her arms on the crib's rail and her chin on her arms. Jo smiled.

"Shall we have some breakfast, then?" Elsie whispered, unable to keep herself from smiling back at Jo. She reached her hand down to stroke the wisps of hair that had sprouted up; flaxen, like Anna's, and as soft as lamb's wool. She had Anna's eyes, too, and they were as wide as ever — sparkling, even, when something of interest passed by her field of vision. Elsie thought, perhaps, she had John's nose, but she could hardly remember. And that, among other things, had begun to trouble her deeply.

She scooped Jo up into her arms, bouncing her slightly as she stood, pausing in front of the window to watch the sun come up over the horizon, burning through the willows in their backyard.

"Well, here we are my jo," she said softly, "The light's come and we can't hide from the day any longer."

 _ii._

"It's nearly Christmas," he said, sipping his tea quietly. Elsie sat in the wingback chair across from him in their den, darning socks. Jo was sitting up on Charles' lap — somewhat precariously given the hot tea, but her eyes were growing heavy with sleep, and she'd nod off soon enough.

"I know," Elsie said, not looking up from her handiwork, "You can't go bloody _anywhere_ without being reminded of it. . ."

Her cool words gave her pause; she'd not realized just quite how bitter she felt about it. She glanced up at Charles who was looking at her with a rather wounded expression.

"Oh," he said quietly, setting his teacup and saucer down on the end table, then, turning back to resettle Jo along one arm, letting her head loll sleepily against his chest, "I suppose I thought it was a happy occasion,"

"It is," she said gently, lowering the socks she was holding, letting them bunch up in her lap, "I suppose it's just also sad," she picked at a loose string absently, "I always enjoyed picking out a little something for Anna."

"You're a marvelous gift giver."

"Thank you," she said, "I do try."

"You will have _this_ youngster to procure some gifts for, however. Surely you're a bit excited for that?"

Elsie shrugged, "Not really. She's not old enough to enjoy it. Maybe by next year, if she's still—" she stopped short, closing her mouth on the sentiment. Charles shifted uneasily in his chair, seeming to cuddle Jo a bit tighter.

"I think we should acquire a _Christmas tree_ ," Charles said, reaching down to take Jo's hand, stroking it gently between his thumb and forefinger.

"What?" Elsie huffed, "Isn't it enough we'll be tending to the enormous one at Downton? Do you really want to come home and sweep up pine needles _every nigh_ t too?"

He chuckled, "A labor of love," he said, "I think it would make things feel — a bit more festive. A more _joyous noel_."

She sighed, "If that's what you want," she said, turning her attention back to her darning. She felt his gaze lingering on her for a moment. When she looked up, though, he'd looked down at Jo again.

"I think I'll take her up, get her settled," Charles said, hoisting Jo up into his arms as he stood.

"Will you come back downstairs when she's tucked in?" Elsie asked, not lifting her gaze.

"Yes," Charles said softly, "A nightcap, perhaps?"

She nodded, "That'd be lovely,"

He gave her a small smile, leaning his head against Jo's, "Alright. Back in a jiff."

Elsie paused in her darning, letting her eyes fluttered closed. She listened to the sound of his footfalls mounting the stairs, moving along the creaking floorboards of their bedroom. She heard him singing to Jo and imagined him standing in front of the bedroom window, the notes reverberating in his chest, vibrating through Jo's tiny back, lulling her to sleep.

After a few moments of quiet, she heard his footfalls descend the stairs, pausing before he walked away from the den toward the kitchen — to fetch sherry, she thought.

She put her darning needles aside just as he came around the corner, glasses in hand.

"Here we are," he said, handing her a glass. She took it, smiling, watching as he lowered himself back onto the settee across from her. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it, reaching her fingers up to her lips, letting them hover their prettily as she looked over at him.

"May I join you?" she asked, tipping her head to one side.

He blinked, "Here — oh, yes, _of course_. Please," he said, scooting over to make room for her. She rose from her chair and crossed the room, setting her sherry glass on the end table. Lowering herself down onto the settee, she nestled into the crook of his arm.

"You've been not quite yourself lately," he said after a moment. She hesitated, curling her fists beneath her chin and letting her head rest against his chest.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"No, no, don't be _sorry_ for it," he hushed, tucking his chin so he could look at her, though he was mostly met with her mop of curls, "I didn't mean for it to sound accusatory. I'm just worried."

She sighed, hot tears stinging her eyes, her throat beginning its familiar dull ache.

"I suppose I just don't feel very festive this year. But I didn't mean to ruin your fun. If you'd like to have a Christmas tree, we shall. It's a marvelous idea."

She turned her face to look up at him, giving him a tearful smile. But he saw through it, frowning at her, and she quickly crumpled into tears.

"There, there," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm sorry," she hiccuped, "I'm so tired of weeping. I would have thought I'd run out of tears by now but — it's bottomless."

Charles nodded, hugging her tighter, "You don't have to stop it up on my account. I hope you know that."

"I thought you'd think me overly sentimental. . ." Elsie whispered, grasping at his shirt.

"Elsie. . ." he said, and she felt it in her jaw which laid against his chest, the feeling of his voice echoing in her skull. Momentarily drowning out the waves of sorrow, for which she was grateful.

She needed a breath of air.

"We've not. . . _been together_ in several weeks. . ." she said, her voice almost cringing at her forwardness. She waited, then looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

"You've been so _tired_ ," he said simply, "I didn't want to appear unsympathetic to your need for sleep. I've been content to just give you a goodnight kiss. When things settle down, Jo's sleeping better. . .I knew it wouldn't be a permanent uncoupling."

She looked at him, then, lifting her head and locking eyes with him, hoping that he would feel what she saw when she looked at him — a gentle, reverent love. A safe and sound affection that warmed her from the inside out. Kindling for a flash fire that she wanted to consume them both.

He cupped her cheek in his hand, stroking it with his thumb. Pulling herself up, she let her hand come to rest on his shoulder to steady herself, the other pressed lovingly against the side of his head. He lowered his hands to rest at her waist, giving her hips a light squeeze. A sound caught in her throat, and arched her back, her neck stretching pleasantly. He ran his hands up the sides of her ribcage, pressing his lips to her temple, her cheek, down her jaw and settling at the fragrant dip behind her earlobe.

Shortly after they'd moved into their cottage together, the secrets of her feminine wiles were revealed to him one by one — and he marveled at how she dabbed scented oils on her wrists, a finely orchestrated raising of the pad of her finger to gently press the scent behind her ear, the hiding place he discovered the first night they shared a bed. And now, whenever he nestled his nose in her hair the secret scent caught his nose, made him growl with delight as his hands moved over her hips, the cage of her rips, the softness of her bare shoulders.

The fireplace crackled, reminding them that the room was warm and inviting of their naked skin. Clumsily, they removed their outermost layers, a flurry of dark fabrics hitting the floor, the chair, the wash of bright, pale skin against the night. She still, after all this time ( _of knowing him, of loving him, of trusting him_ ) instinctively brought her arms up bashfully to cover where the fullness of her breasts peaked over her shift. She pressed her damp palms against her face and looked at him expectantly, the nail of her little finger brushing her lip. He leaned forward and nudged her hand away, seizing her lips with his, pressing his hand into the back of her head, his fingers catching.

She rose up on her knees, wrapping her arms around his neck, her elbows angled up, fingers fumbling behind his head, her forearms desperately pressing him closer to her. He ran a hand along her upper thigh, his fingers crawling under the silk of her shift, of her knickers — and finding the damp silk of her that is more sumptuous than anything man-made; and rightfully so, that she is God-made and ever a taciturn angel.

 _Have mercy,_ he though as she deepens the kiss, gently tugging at his lower lip — as she would do to her own, in her sweet nervous way, if they were across the room from one another. Heat fluttered low in his core and he gently pushed her down, reaching up to pull a small pillow from the edge of the settee so that her head is cushioned. She smiled, settling against it, looking up at him with grateful eyes and a balmy smile.

When they were skin to skin, knickers pushed into a cushion, dangling from an ankle, she exhaled smoothly, the warmth and weight of him the most visceral comfort she's ever known. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw him up above her, back on his haunches, blowing softly against his hands. She tipped her head curiously to one side, and when he lowered them, letting the backs of his fingers trail lightly along the inside of her thighs, she laughed a little.

"Did you warm your hands for me?" she breathed, digging her heels into the edge of the settee as she felt his thumb stroke her, a tender, stirring little pain.

He leaned forward, nuzzling his face against her neck, his hot breath in her hair, his hand delighting her below — a conversation of sensations: his fingers asking, searching in the darkness of her for the switch to alight, to lead her back to him. Her body answering, her arms hugging him tighter, her body tightening its grip around his inquisitive hand — until the whispers of their bodies grew and she did make a sound, a moan that began deep, below, and resounded in her body until it reached her lips, tumbling out and into his ear, where it sunk through him and shimmied down until it met his fingers inside of her— connected, cycling again until she stopped it — reaching her hand down and grabbing his wrist, pulling him out and away. The scent of her, of them, the aroma of their passionate exchange, dizzied her. He pushed a few fallen strands of hair from her eyes, lowered his chin slightly, allowing his eyes to do the questioning.

He sat back, twisting his body so that his feet were on the floor again (but he felt no more grounded) and reached a hand down to her, helping her to pull herself upright.

There was a moment, when she'd settled into his lap, when she held up a finger — asking him to wait.

They listened hard.

The house was quiet. Nothing but a crackling fireplace and his lusty breaths.

She exhaled.

Raising her hips, she felt him grasp her waist and she looked down — he'd begun to slip off the settee somewhat, a boyish grin on his face.

She pressed her lips together, raising her eyebrows slightly. He remedied it by inching down the front of the settee, and she stood — as he slunk rather ungracefully onto the floor, his back against the front of the settee. He looked up at her sheepishly, and she hummed, lowering herself down into his lap again.

"Did that hurt?"

He shook his head, a cowlick of hair flopping onto his damp forehead.

"Carry on," he rasped, planting a kiss on her nose.

The conversation started again, her palms bracing her above him, allowing her to more steadily move up and down, varying her pace, her angle — until his hands began to twitch at where her waist tucked in, curling around her back, pressing into the flesh there, his thumbs sliding over her the top of her hipbone.

With him inside of her she was always struck by the feeling of experiencing her body from the inside out; fascinated that he could feel her, slick and cozy, tightening around him and embracing him, _the safety of her body wrapping itself around him._ Yet, all the while, he was stretching her and exploring deeper depths — it was so vulnerable, for without him that space was hardly _empty._ It wasn't a vast, eternal galaxy expanding into nothingness inside of her. But still, the feeling of him there gave her such pause: she steadied him even now, but she could also steady herself and _that_ was her power, why she could rest assured that she would not unhinge whenever he touched that place within her that made her feel as though she could spiral up into the night sky, that made her face burn brighter than starlight, that made her entire body twinkle and flash radiantly in the darkness.

And she fell, then, like a falling star. And he caught her against his warm chest, pressing a hand into her damp hair, wrapping his arms tightly around her so that she would stay on earth with him, instead of sailing into starry heaven — a luminary whose history existed in a silver chatelaine.

 _iii._

She'd redressed herself in such haste that she'd put her nightgown on backwards. She only realized later, as they lay awake in bed, and he gently played with the lace trim of its front, which peaked out behind her hair as he pressed himself against her back.

The slant of light from the moon illuminated Jo's crib and they watched as she slept, her occasionally sleepy sighs making them wonder what it was that she dreamt of.

"I don't know that babes dream of anything at all," Elsie whispered, pushing her foot between his, seeking their warmth, "I wonder how long it will be before she'll wake up with nightmares, begging to crawl into bed with us."

Charles hummed, "I don't know. _I_ never did that."

"Had nightmares?"

"No, no, of course I did — but I certainly never crawled into bed with my parents."

"Would you not allow it?"

She felt him shrug, "Well — what about you? Did _you_?"

"No," Elsie said quietly, turning over onto her back so she could look up at him, "And I think that's precisely why I would want her to feel comfortable doing so. I lay awake scared in my bed more nights than I care to _count_. I would never want her to feel that," she reached up and folded down the collar of his nightshirt, "Would _you_?"

" _Of course not_ ," he said quietly, "This makes me ponder other things about my childhood, I find."

"This talk?" she asked, "Well, me too. I should think it would inspire that reflection in anyone. . ."

"What will she do? Go into service?" he asked, turning so that he, too, was on his back, staring up at the ceiling, "Would Anna and John have sent her to school in the village?"

"I honestly don't know," Elsie said, "If they remained in service they might well have started her off as a scullery maid, to keep her close," she sighed, "By the time she's old enough for either we'll both be fully retired. So, I suppose we could send her to school."

"Do you think. . .there will even _be_ houses like Downton when she's grown up? Maybe we shouldn't train her for something that may not even exist," it was an astute and reluctant observation, and even in the dark, she knew his face would be in a tight grimace as he admitted it.

"We've a good five years to think on it," she said, "And there's far more immediate concerns to mull over while we've the time,"

"Like what?"

She sighed, "We still haven't decided what she'll call us."

"I've told you my thoughts on the matter," he said, sitting up and turning his pillow to the cooler side, "We should just allow her to come up with whatever is natural for her."

"You're putting an awful lot of faith in the proclivities of a child,"

"Perhaps I am," he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek, "But it's a risk I'm willing to take."

She laughed, lowering her head onto his chest and shutting her eyes, "I'm prepared to remind you of that," she yawned, "when the outcome is such that the only person to show you any empathy is His Lordship."


	12. Noel

**A/N: If I'd had the presence of mind to get this posted by July 25th if could have been Christmas in July! Oh well. . .**

* * *

 _i._

"It's a modest pine—but I rather like it," Charles said, rubbing his fingers together, sticky with sap. The scent of the tree filled the room almost as soon as he'd brought it through the door.

"It's _lovely,_ " she said, "But we've no ornaments?"

He lifted a finger, crossing the room with a slight hop in his step, "Ah — but we _do_ , my dear. A gift from the Crawleys," and with a flourish, he lifted the top off a rather large box that had somehow gone unnoticed.

"Oh my," Elsie said, peering in, "Those look . . ."

"A bit bold for our little cottage, I admit, but —"

"I was going to say _expensive,_ " Elsie cringed, "Is it wise to accept such a gift from them? Assuming we'd like to use them for Christmases yet to come, with a little one underfoot this may be. . ."

His mouth curled around a word that might have been simply an _oh,_ but he didn't make a sound, merely scratched his chin, "Well — while she's still small, we could just relegate them to the higher branches — what say you?"

She gave him a small smirk, "I say that sounds _wise_ ," she said, turning to look at where Jo lay, set out on a small afghan, lifting her head up to look at them as she curled her fingers through the blankets loops.

"What do _you_ think, Jo?" Charles said, lifting one of the delicate bulbs out of the box, "If we start now, we might finish before Saint Nicholas arrives in Yorkshire. . ."

A knock at the door startled them both. From her blanket, Jo looked up keenly, eyeing the sparkling bulbs as they caught the room's light as Charles lifted them from the box.

"Who could that be?" Elsie said, "And on Christmas Eve?"

She looked over her shoulder at Jo and satisfied that she was content for the moment, shuffled into the hallway, through the kitchen, to the back door. As she opened it, a blustery winter wind came in — and brought a snowcovered Beryl Patmore with it.

"It's colder 'an a well-digger's _arse_ ," Mrs. Patmore exclaimed, struggling with the bags and boxes overflowing from her arms. Elsie almost inadvertently shut poor Daisy out in the cold, having not seen the small girl behind the parcels _she_ was carrying.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Carson!" Daisy said, peeping her head round the corner of the boxes.

"It's not _yet_ ," Mrs. Patmore admonished playfully, practically dropping all the goods she'd hefted into the Carson's kitchen. Rubbing her gloved hands together, she noticed Elsie looking at her, colored by confusion. "I hope we're not interrupting—" Mrs. Patmore said slowly, eyeing Daisy, who went scarlet.

"No, no," Elsie said, "We weren't expecting any company is all. . ."

"But it's Christmas!" Mrs. Patmore yipped. Daisy threw her an annoyed glance, "Well — _almost._ "

"We thought you'd all be making the most of the Downton Christmas festivities," Charles said, appearing in the doorway, Jo in his arms.

"Well, we were until you Carson lot left! You didn't even stay long enough to open your gifts. Her Ladyship _insisted_ we bring them along. Mr Branson's offered to come with the rest."

"The rest?" Elsie said, bewildered, "How could their possibly be more than the excess you were touting when you came in,"

"Most of them are for Jo," Daisy said, shrugging off her coat and settling it onto a hook before excitedly — nearly a hop-skip, in fact — rushing across the room to give Jo a kiss, "Hello, Jo!"

Jo smiled, tapping her fist against Charles shoulder excitedly.

Mrs. Patmore rested a hand on Elsie's forearm, "I thought you would be in search of some Christmas cheer. I know how terrible the winter's been for you. For all of us, of course, but _especially_ you —" she glanced over at Daisy, watching as Carson settled Jo into the girl's arms, her face brightening, "Daisy's not been herself neither. Jo's about the only thing that'll put a smile on her face,"

Elsie nodded, "I can empathize with that."

"We won't stay late but — well, let's have some gifts, yeah? At least let me defrost in front of your nice fireplace, in that _beautiful_ hearth!" she said, pulling off her sopping gloves.

"I'll put a kettle on," Elsie said, turning toward the stove. When Mrs. Patmore had removed her coat, hat and scarf, she walked up behind Elsie, harumphing. Hands on her hips, she scoffed.

"D'you have a single apron in this house?" she cried, "How'my supposed to put the finishing touches on the powdered tarts I brought if you've got nothing to keep the sugar from mussing up my nice blouse?"

Elsie pressed her lips tight together, "You know right well I don't cook enough to warrant an apron,"

"Well, you'd better come up with something — the first time you let Jo get her hands in some cake batter you'll need to repaint the walls by the time she's done!"

"Did I hear mention of tarts?" Charles said, coming over to the two women, a slight spring in his step.

"You certainly did, Mr. Carson. All your favorites, made by my own fair hand this afternoon!"

"And _mine,_ " Daisy laughed, dancing Jo around the kitchen, "I did all the blackberry ones myself!"

"It's true, she did —" Mrs. Patmore conceded, "Do you have any clotted cream, by the way?"

Elsie scoffed, "What do _you_ think?"

" _Right_ ," Mrs. Patmore said, turning and heading into their small pantry, "What'll you do when I _die,_ Elsie Carson?" she said jovially — but stopped midway across the kitchen. The room went quiet around them. Even Jo's happy cooing came to an abrupt halt. Elsie gripped the sideboards, closing her eyes a moment.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mrs. Patmore breathed, "That was a wretched thing to say—"

Elsie looked up quickly, wiping her face, "No, it's fine, Mrs. Patmore. I'm not _that_ overly sensitive," she reached up to open the cupboard, "Besides, you're right — we'll probably all _starve to death_ without you."

She looked up, giving Mrs. Patmore a joshing grin. Everyone in the room exhaled collectively.

Except for Daisy, who responded with a sharp yelp as Jo reached up and yanked hard on her braid.

 _ii._

" _O star of wonder, star of night, Star with royal beauty bright, Westward leading, still proceeding,_ _Guide us to thy perfect light",_ Charles sang, his rich baritone filling the house. Mrs. Patmore hummed along, her eyes closed, blissfully warm next to the fire, a shawl around her shoulders. Daisy nursed her _second_ cocoa of the evening and nibbled on a biscuit, inspecting the several new books she'd acquired. Elsie rocked Jo, who was valiantly trying to stay awake, keen on her surroundings and curious about everything — perhaps most of all the music, which she'd never heard outside the confines of her crib. Charles finished the verse and sighed, reaching over from the chair he was sitting in to the arm of Elsie's, gently running a finger the length of her upper arm.

"Did that manage to lull her to sleep?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Oh, she's trying _so very hard_ to stay awake," Elsie cooed, tickling Jo's belly, "Have you got another one in you?"

He hummed, "I think I do. ." he cleared his throat, then began, his voice soft and low. He looked at her lovingly, his fingers still lazily tracing the length of her arm, " _Silent night, holy night. . ."_

 _Come on— it's Christmas!_

 _Upstairs, Lady Mary was still singing, the clear notes ringing out through the abbey, up into the rafters, settling like nesting birds. And below stairs, their breathing hitched._

" _Radiant beams from thy holy face, with dawn of redeeming grac_ e," Charles sang, reaching over and taking her hand, he looked down at Jo, waggling his eyebrows, "Another infant who is,— it seems, _tender and mild_. . .and fast asleep."

Elsie broke his gaze, looking down at the babe in her arms. Sure enough, Jo was fast asleep, curled up in the crook of her arm, one chubby little leg dangling over and resting on her lap.

"I think someone _else_ has nodded off," Daisy peeped, "Or had her fill of eggnog. . ." Charles and Elsie both looked up. They all laughed affectionately at the sight of a quietly snoring— if not also _very_ contented— cook.

 _iii_

Elsie woke just after three for reasons that were unknown to her. She stood, pulling on her robe, and went to the window. There was a fresh dusting of snow, big, wet snowflakes that fell idly from the sky, irradiated by white, winter moonlight. She hugged herself, though she wasn't cold, exactly — her shivering was from uneasiness, not a draught.

She turned and looked over her shoulder. Jo lay in her crib, squinting up at her in the darkness. Elsie was a bit surprised to see the baby awake — she wasn't fussing, not even fighting with her blanket. Merely staring up at Elsie inquisitively. She considered just leaving her, letting her fall back asleep — but instead, she reached down and gently lifted her from the crib. Jo didn't protest, and Elsie was grateful. She _wanted_ to hold her, quite simply. Taking her back to the bed, she settled herself against the headboard, pulling her knees up and resting Jo against the tops of them so that they could look at one another in the dark.

"Your mum _loved_ Christmas," Elsie said, stroking Jo's head softly, "And it wasn't about gifts or pastries or eggnog either. I think she just loved being able to shower everyone with affection. Of course in those days it was the day _after_ Christmas when we'd have all our fun downstairs. The family would sleep away the day and we'd rise and have our little celebrations. Exchanging gifts, Mrs Patmore cooking something delicious and rich — we'd all be half asleep by midday, but it was one of the only times when we weren't rushing about, missing one another by a hair. And I think that's what Anna cherished. She'd be the first up to freshen the pot of tea, sneak someone an extra biscuit, clean up the ribbons and brown paper. She'd lay a hand on your shoulder while she leaned down to clear your plate — one year, she was so excited she threw her arms around Charles, and he was so shocked he couldn't even chide her for being improper. I don't even remember what —" she paused, lapsing into the memory, "Actually, I think perhaps I _do_. It was before the war — must have been, because in those years we were rationing — and he'd given everyone a small tin of sweeties. Well, you'd've thought your mother hadn't ever seen chocolate in her life." Elsie sighed, peeking over at Charles, who was still peacefully sleeping next to her.

Jo cooed and Elsie looked up at her again — when she did, the baby smiled at her, kicking her feet against Elsie's lap.

" _Ooph_ ," Elsie said, "Right in my belly, Jo. If I didn't wake up to go to the loo, I certainly've got to now, thanks to you."

Settling Jo into the bed, she stroked her hair gently before tiptoeing away to the loo, returning after a few moments to find that Jo and Charles were both sound asleep. She bit her lip, stifling a laugh. It was almost a comical sight — enormous, burly Charles and teeny, tiny Jo, their heads against the pillows, covered up to their chests with a down comforter. She was torn between wanting to join them — and fearing she'd disrupt the cozy little scene.

She turned away from the bed and went out into the hall. The house creaked as the wind picked up outside, the sound of icy snow flicking against the windows. She took a few steps toward the guest bedroom across the hall and hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorknob. When she turned it, it was so cold under her hand that it nearly hurt, yet she pushed in. She considered turning on a small lamp, but opted to sit in the dark instead. She'd rather not see the bed, the chair, the room at all. She'd tried never to enter it since the night Anna died. The only thing she had done, several weeks earlier, was take a small parcel from their bedroom and hide it under the pillows of the bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

But it had called to her day after day, the pull almost magnetic whenever she passed by the door. It haunted her, the outline of a memory never made; a gift ungiven.

She groped beneath the pillows in the dark until she curled her fingers around the box, pulling it out and settling it into her lap. It was just a simple box, wrapped in newsprint because she'd not gotten around to the gift wrap. She'd purchased it in summer, on a trip to Thirsk. It wasn't unusual for her to stowed away gifts all year, only wrapping them right before Christmas. She'd vacillated between gifting it to Anna when the baby was born, but had tucked it away for Christmas, figuring that without John, the holiday would not inspire the joy in her that it usually did.

She'd forgotten about it, however, until a few weeks ago when she'd been digging around in her dresser for an older blouse that had seen better days and, she thought, could finally be cut up and used for dusting rags — when her fingers touched the edge of the box, and she recoiled as if she'd been burned.

Touching the box now hurt less — but she couldn't say if it had lost its sting or if she'd merely toughened up the tips of her fingers; calloused from mourning.

 _She remembered the conversation with Her Ladyship that had ultimately lead her to make the purchase vividly. It had been as hot a day as they were liable to get in Yorkshire in the summertime, and she'd trudged out into the thick of it to answer Her Ladyship's call. She'd sulked a bit, wishing she could have been called for in the house, where it was perpetually stone cold. Still, she forced a smile as she approached, folding her hands neatly in front of her, squelching the urge to reach up and wipe her brow, which she could feel was already dripping with sweat._

" _Mrs Carson," Cora said in her mildly affable way, "Please, do have a seat. Have something cold to drink," she nodded toward a pitcher of lemonade._

" _I'm fine, m'lady. What can I do for you?"_

" _I insist, Mrs Carson— we need to have a proper chat — out here, away from listening ears, duty and distraction."_

 _Elsie frowned, a bit confused, but acquiesced. "Very well, m'lady," she said, sitting down — but not moving to pour herself a glass._

" _Please, Mrs Carson — have something to drink. I'm sure you're more parched than I am. Don't worry, I won't tell Mr. Carson."_

 _Elsie smiled, lowering her gaze a bit, "Very well m'lady. I thank you," she filled her glass tentatively and resisted the urge to gulp down the entire thing. When the slightly bittersweet drink lapped at her tongue, she had to suppress a moan of relief._

" _I know that shortly after you and Carson were married we briefly discussed the inevitability of needing to replace the both of you upon your retirement," Cora begin, her glass beginning to sweat against her hand, "Now, it's already been made quite clear that Mr. Barrow will be succeeding Carson as butler — but, as for your successor, it seems to be a bit less clear."_

" _Yes, m'lady," Elsie said, "As you know, I gave you my recommendation when you asked, and while my opinion has not changed — I understand that it may no longer be practical."_

 _Cora eyed her sympathetically, "I thought as much," she reached for a napkin, wiping her glass, then her palms, "I quite agree with your initial recommendation, despite current circumstances, and I've talked it over with Robert," her mouth squirmed in a pleased little grin, "And I think he's prepared to surrender to a compromise."_

" _Oh?" Elsie said, her heartbeat fluttering in her chest._

" _If you will stay on until after Anna's had her baby— and had ample time to settle in — then we could agree to her promotion. As you know, times are changing Mrs Carson, and Robert and I are making some very specific choices about long term staffing. We presume that within the next decade, we will employ far less staff. However, a housekeeper will always be non negotiable and she must be someone that we trust, that the girls trust," she tipped her head slightly, "And you know better than I, I'm sure, how Mary feels about dear Anna,"_

" _Perhaps," Elsie admitted, "I know that Anna is very fond of Lady Mary and has always taken great pride in her work caring for her,"_

" _Yes, well — as you can see, Anna is really the only proper person for the job. Not to say that anyone can fill your shoes, Mrs Carson — but Anna's nearly the right size," she looked down at her glass, "She will have her own room, of course — yours — and we can hire a young woman from the village to care for her child—"_

" _Of course, when I've retired, I'm more than happy to take the bairn as often as I'm allowed," Elsie piped up, "I'm sorry, m'lady, I didn't mean to interrupt,"_

" _Oh, Mrs Carson — your enthusiasm is reassuring — and unsurprising," she looked up at her from beneath her long, dark eyelashes, "I know how much you care for Anna and I suspect you'll be a cherished presence in the life of her child,"_

" _I certainly hope so, m'lady,"_

" _Well," Cora sighed, "As I said, Robert has agreed to this arrangement. We've only got to make the offer to Anna," she smiled at Elsie, "Of course, it would probably mean far more coming from you."_

" _Thank you, m'lady," she said, tears brimming her eyes, covering her already sweat-stained face, "It certainly would mean the world to me,"_

" _Very good," Cora said, "And how is Anna feeling?"_

" _Oh," Elsie said, reaching up to wipe her eyes, "Fine, fine. She and Mr. Bates and very excited, of course. . ."_

" _It's an exciting time," she said, looking back at Downton, which loomed behind her, "I think it must be rather something to be raising a child in this new world, the post-war world, that we have found ourselves in," she sighed, setting her glass down and wiping her hands again, "I naturally assumed that this child would grow up to be a hall boy or a scullery maid but —" she pursed her lips slightly, "There are just so many paths for a child to walk these days. They need not be tied to the family business,"_

" _I suppose so, m'lady," Elsie said quietly, though it wasn't clear if Cora was offering something or merely having an epiphany._

" _Forgive me for being so forward, Mrs Carson but —" she leaned over just slightly, her lips parting curiously, eyes sparkling, "Do you ever wish you'd chosen your path differently? Not left Scotland. Not come to Downton," she sat back, "Or, not stayed?"_

" _I don't anymore, m'lady," she said, looking up at the grand estate, the summer sun making her eyes ache but also warming her face pleasantly, "Over the years I've asked myself if I would have been happier on a farm. A wife and a mother—" she sighed, looking down at her glass, which no longer held any ice at all, "— but I'm pleased with where I am right now, at the end of the path maybe, and if I'd not walked the one that I did, I don't suppose I'd've ended up here," she shrugged._

" _We're just so awfully glad, so blessed, that you did," Cora said, reaching over quite suddenly and putting her hand atop Elsie's, "You have been such a gift to our family."_

" _Thank you, m'lady,"_

" _Now," Cora said, patting Elsie's hand, "Speaking of family, do tell me — how is your sister?"_

On her next half-day, she had gone to Thirsk alone.

She lifted the top of the box and removed the wispy cloud of cotton that had been so carefully place to protect the totem within. She lifted her hand to her mouth, covering it so that her cries would go unheard, and let her fingers touch the chilled silver of the chatelaine she'd had engraved — with _Mrs Anna Bates._


	13. Bloom

_i_

Spring, 1927

Charles had been quite keen on having a flower garden, yet somehow it seemed that Elsie was the one with muddy knees. She reached up to wipe her brow, the trowel she was holding catching the late afternoon light as she raised it above her head. She sighed, peaking over to where Jo sat on a blanket, happily banging a stuffed rabbit she'd come to prefer against any other, against the ground.

"Jo, darling, be _nice_ to poor bunny," Elsie laughed. At the sound of her voice, Jo laughed too, her little giggles ending with satisfied closed-mouthed hums. Elsie reached down for the satchels of seeds she was considering. Zinnias, wild lupine and twinspur—which Charles was not convinced would survive the winter, but nonetheless she wanted to try.

Jo began to coo, but as Elsie shook a few seeds into her palm and turned her little gurgles grew fainter. Charles appeared at the gate, waving to her. She looked down at the blanket and saw that, as was usual these days, Jo had taken off — crawling madly toward him.

" _Oh_! Charles — grab her, would you? She'll be _covered_ in mud!" Elsie called to him, squinting into the sunlight. He had been to the village and was dressed smartly; a nicer pair of slacks and a jacket she'd not seen out for quite a while since they'd officially retired. He had sat himself on several committees, and thus, every few weeks he spent half a day or so converging with his fellow chairs, discussing things that she was pleased to no longer have to worry about.

 _He_ enjoyed it, though, and that was all that mattered, to her. She smiled as he reached down and scooped Jo up, raising her high above his head, then dipping her back down toward the ground. She squealed with delight, throwing her arms around his neck and holding tight as he crossed the yard.

"I am in wait of the day when my old spine can no longer bend to these silly, baby whims," he sighed, giving Jo's cheek an animated kiss. He looked down at Elsie, his eyes widening sympathetically, "You're planting those, then?"

She huffed, throwing her head back, " _Attempting_ to —" she waggled the trowel at him, "But this thing isn't cooperating. It's a miserable thing — flimsy and —"

" _Mimsy,"_ Charles chirped, peppering Jo's face with kisses. She giggled, batting her hands at his face.

"What?" Elsie said, shaking her head lightly.

" _All mimsy were the borogoves — and the mome raths outgrabe_ ," he recited, his deep baritone making Jo pause. He looked down at Elsie, "The Jabberwocky!"

"You've lost me,"

"Mr Lewis Carroll," he said, " _Mimsy_ — flimsy and miserable — is part of the Jabberwocky lexicon, you see — and you have just given me a perfect reason to use it outside of literature."

"It never ceases to amaze me how much you've managed to read and remember," she said, sticking her hands back into the dirt.

He shrugged, "Well, now we've both reason to read _twice_ what we read before —" he looked down at Jo, "We know you like stories, don't you tiny girl?"

Jo laughed, nestling her head against Charles neck.

"' _Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe."_ he bellowed, taking her hand and dancing her about the yard.

"Mim mim mim mim mim," Jo cooed, squirming a bit until Charles set her back down on the blanket. She immediately took off again, crawling to Elsie. Charles lowered himself onto the blanket and took off his jacket, leaning back and watching his girls a moment before realizing he perhaps should _not_ have gotten down — lest neither of them find it easy to stand back up again.

"I'm not dead _yet_ ," she said, turning to look coyly at him, having read into his silence. He smiled, laughing a bit.

"Read my mind, did you?"

"Well," Elsie said, laying the trowel down and unselfconsciously wiping her hands on her skirt before picking up Jo and settling her onto her lap, "I was thinking the same thing so it wasn't as though I had to venture much of a guess,"

Charles smiled. Sometimes, when he watched Elsie looking at Jo, it was almost as though the fine lines of her face smoothed, the silvery strands of hair turned back to rich auburn — and she was lighter in step, so eager to smile at Jo, to pull a silly face to make her laugh, to lift her voice into the rafters late at night, singing the baby to sleep. Sometimes it comforted him to look at her and see the years fall away, stacking up beside them; years the currency of life. He longed, at times, to go back and live with her when they were wealthy; not in salary — _but time._

Seeing Jo grow and change each day only stood to remind him that so too, they would change as well. Joints a bit stiffer, headaches in the afternoon, walking into a room only to immediately forget what one was there for. All signs to him that he was getting old, or that perhaps, he already _was._

But when he looked at her in those careful moments, fleeting and whimsical in their beauty, he felt just as the fresh earth that stained her fingers, the dewy air that filled his lungs, the stretching blossoms on the trees — springlike and filled again with hope.

"Mim mim mim mim," Jo cooed again, placing a hand gently on Elsie's face. Reaching up, Elsie grasped it between her fingers, bringing it gently to her lips.

"It _is_ a rather nice word to say," Charles mused, "Mimsy. _Mimsy._ Mimmmmzeeeee."

Jo turned her head to him, as though for a moment she'd forgotten that all of them could be in the same place at once, and scampered off Elsie's lap, plopping her hands into the dirt and crawling back to Charles, who was mindful to wipe her hands before he settled her onto the blanket.

"She's on the move now," he said, "I suppose we'll have to set about making sure everything is sorted in the house, for when she begins to walk."

"She's growing like a _weed_ ," Elsie said, just as she ripped a fistful out of the ground. The parallel made her chuckle quietly unto herself.

For a man as large and considerably older as Charles, he moved about with the practiced grace of a man whose every step through life had been carefully choreographed. Elsie smiled at this notion as she watched him hoist himself up, Jo in his arms, bouncing her about the yard as he waltzed, his footsteps quick and elegant, through the grass as he regaled the poem to her again, her giggles matching his gusto note for note,

" _Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"_

 _ii._

" _I'll_ get up," Charles sighed, throwing back the covers of the bed with his eyes still closed. Half asleep, he paused, his body pitching forward, when he felt her warm hand against his chest.

"I'm _already_ up," Elsie whispered, "Go back to sleep."

He flopped back against the pillows, falling back into his dream almost immediately. This was their routine, and often times he'd wake in the morning with no recollection of having woken up in the night at all. It was just as well, because then he wouldn't realize how little she slept and worry after her about it.

Jo had begun teething and while she seemed distractible during the daylight hours, in the quiet of the night her fussiness welled up into full-on wails. There wasn't much to be done about it — that much Elsie figured out rather quickly — but Mrs Patmore had given her some scotch and told her it would help.

"Who?" Elsie had laughed, "Jo — or me?"

"The _lot_ of ya," she'd retorted, shoving the bottle into Elsie's hands.

Elsie lifted Jo from her crib, walking her out into the hall and downstairs into the den, her soothing going unheard over the baby's frustrated cries.

She poured herself a small glass of scotch, popping Jo onto her hip so that she could carry the glass — out of her reach — with them back upstairs. She'd not exactly told Charles about their little ritual, and she didn't want him to start asking question if she were to suddenly bring the bottle into their bedroom with her at night.

Her father had been like that. Drunk more often than not. A _mean_ drunk, too. Prone to violence and belligerence. Elsie'd never taken to the bottle like that — and _thank God for it._ Still, she was wise enough to know if she ever got too comfortable with that warm, amber liquid it would be her ruin. Even on these long nights with fussing Jo, she only poured enough to swirl around the glass, dip her finger into so that she could run it along Jo's poor, red gums. She could feel, on the bottom, where her little teeth would soon enough come through. She wasn't sure whether the drink acted like an anesthetic to the pain or if the shock of its flavor merely was a distraction, but in either case, it served to calm Jo down enough to fall back asleep. Elsie would knock back the rest of her drink and do the same.

What she didn't realize was that when she slid under the covers and Charles rolled over to envelope her into his arms, welcoming her back into slumber and warmth, that the scent of scotch tickled his nose and jarred him awake momentarily.

Then, after she'd fallen asleep, and Jo was nestled safe in her crib, he would sit up and look down at them in the dark, fretting alone until the sun came up.

 _iii._

"I'm so glad you could come," Mary said, "Mama and I both thought it would be a treat to have you attend our first Garden Part of the summer as proper guests, not having to work for once."

Charles smiled, "We're very grateful for the invitation, m'lady," he said, "I will have to stifle the urge to help Mr. Barrow, I admit,"

"Well, we'll make sure to give you a stiff drink to calm you down," Robert said, appearing next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder affectionately, "It was really Cora's doing. Not to say we all weren't pleased to see you and Mrs Carson but —" he looked over in the direction of Cora and Elsie, who were sitting in the garden, Jo standing between them, bracing herself on the edge of Cora's chair, "I think she was _most_ excited to see Miss Jo."

"I can't believe how much she's grown," Mary said, "She'll be walking soon by the looks of it,"

"I think you're right, m'lady. She seems to be nearly there as of late," he looked back over his shoulder at where they sat. Elsie looked up, her eyes sparkling at him under the brim of her hat. Her face was flushed from the early summer heat but she smiled, giving him a small wave.

"You've done a tremendous thing taking her in, Carson," Robert said, "I won't suppose to know precisely what it feels, but, I do know that our Marigold has given me some idea,"

Charles nodded, sipping at the drink he'd been handed, "If you'll pardon my sentimentality, m'lord, I'm learning that _even the tiniest of_ children have a habit of taking up an astoundingly _large_ place in one's heart,"

"Right you are, old friend," Robert said, watching as Mary strode away from them, reaching out to take George's hand, heading over to where the nannies were chasing after his cousins, "Do tell me though, Carson, has Mrs Carson been well? I know Anna's loss still weighs very heavily on Mary — as I can only assume it has on your wife."

Charles sighed, "I would not wish to betray her confidence, m'lord, but I _do_ think it pains her considerably more than she permits me to see," he watched as Jo turned slightly, reaching her a hand up to Elsie. She smiled widely at her, scooping her up and settling her onto her lap. Jo had on the sweetest little taffeta party dress — an entirely impractical garment — that had been a gift from Mr Branson.

"Being that I've been married longer than you, I'm tempted to give you advice on the matter," Robert said, swirling the last of his drink around before taking a last sip, "But the truth is, Carson, I'm no more wise than I was when I married Cora 37 years ago."

* * *

"I think the last time we sat here like this, drinking lemonade, we were speaking about Anna," Cora said quietly, setting down her glass and folding her hands neatly in her lap. Elsie's breath hitched.

"I think you're right, m'lady," she said, smoothing Jo's fine wisps of hair back into place. Not even a year old she was an already her little blonde curls had started to spring up, framing her sweet face.

"I fear it will be an excessively sentimental thing to say, but I do believe that Downton has lost a certain light without her in the halls," Cora said, looking over at where Mary was watching George play, taking another drink from the tray of a passing waiter, "I know Mary hasn't been this quiet since we lost Matthew. . ."

"Has she found a new Lady's Maid?" Elsie asked tentatively.

Cora smirked, shaking her head, "She's refused one _entirely_."

Elsie raised her eyebrows, "My goodness. _That's_ quite a departure. . ."

"I know," Cora said, her eyes widening, "Perhaps it's best you don't inform Carson. It may be more than he could bear. . ."

Elsie looked up at him, standing there talking to Robert, his spine straight and regal — yet somehow softer round the edges, a certain peace in his face. He was far quicker to smile, to nod, to laugh.

"I don't know, m'lady. Mr Carson has changed quite a bit since this little pip came into our lives. . ." she said, petting Jo's head.

"She gets more and more _darling_ each time I see her," Cora cooed, leaning over and taking Jo's tiny hand, "Has she been keeping you up with teething woes?"

Elsie flicked her eyes up at Cora, the sensation of talking about children with the Countess an odd, but also somewhat tender, relief.

"A bit, m'lady," she said, "It seems to be bother her worse at night,"

"A little brandy will help," Cora said, giving her a conspiratory glance, "But of course don't say that I told you that,"

Elsie bit her lip, "I'll keep mum, m'lady," she looked down at where Jo was happily gumming away at her fist, kicking her feet and looking around, everything vibrant and fascinating to her. It made Elsie's heart clench to realize that as of late, it seemed, she only saw life in varying shades of gray.

What she wouldn't give to see the world in color again.


	14. Haunted

**A/N: Thank you dillydallyy for beta-reading this for me last night and giving me a most enthusiastic _fuck this shit_ and being the comma police. :) **

* * *

_i._

The first time Elsie saw Anna was while holding Jo on their back porch in the middle of February.

The baby had croup and her barking cough had woken both Elsie and Charles with a start. They needn't have called Dr. Clarkson; the illness spoke for itself. Elsie pushed the heavy covers from her body, freeing herself from their weight, from Charles' warm weight beside her in their bed, and swooped Jo up from her crib.

"What do we do?" Charles had asked her, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"I'm going to take her downstairs and out the back for a few minutes — the cold night air will help her breathe."

"Won't she get a chill?" he yawned, pulling the covers up over himself to stave off the draught in the room since the fire had gone cold.

"It'll only be for a moment," she said, though he couldn't have heard her over the sound of Jo's hacking.

"Are you sure we don't need to call for Dr. Clarkson?" Charles grimaced.

She shook her head, "No, no — maybe tomorrow but. . ." she sighed, "I _know_ this cough; it's croup. Becky had it all the time as a bairn because her lungs weren't strong."

Charles looked at her a long moment in the dark. Then, he sighed, throwing back the bedcovers, "I'll put on a pot of tea. You'll need to warm up when you come in,"

"Oh. . . _Charles_ ," she dismissed, with a little yawn — but she was grateful for his company. They took the stairs slowly, sleepily inching their way down. As she stepped out onto their back porch, she felt his hand linger on her lower back until the very last second, the warmth leaving her like a sigh.

Jo coughed, her entire body tightening up in Elsie's arms, her breath ghosting in front of her face, startling her a bit. Elsie laughed, though it was rather a pitiful sight. Still, Jo's endearing curiosity had a way of making even the most unpleasant moments somewhat of a delight. She pressed Jo's head tighter to her chest, trying to keep her warm as she inhaled deeply, the night air seeming to open up her throat — at least temporarily.

She hummed quietly to her, feeling her own crushing fatigue taking hold in her chest. She looked out over the yard, snow blowing off the branches of the willow, dancing in the moon's glow. Then a shadow caught her eye, almost that of a person. Jo hacked again, turning her face toward Elsie's chest, away from the cold. Elsie soothed her gently, rubbing her back and hushing.

" _You're alright, my darling,_ " she whispered, and when she lifted her gaze to the yard again, she inhaled so quickly that the frigid night air burned her throat, her lungs, and soon she was coughing in a fit nearly as bad as Jo's.

Her eyes began to tear up, and she struggled to see through the haze, but she _knew_ who she'd seen.

But perhaps she'd not seen it. Surely she'd _wanted_ to see it. But she couldn't have.

"Elsie? Are you alright?"

She turned, Charles standing in the doorway behind her, his face red from the cold.

"Yes," she croaked, hugging Jo tighter, "I think she'll sleep better now."

* * *

The second time Elsie saw Anna was while she was washing dishes.

It was mid summer and late evening, so the air was balmy and making her a bit sleepy as she stood at the sink. From the window, she watched Charles and Jo walking among the flowers — which had all bloomed, just as she'd been certain they would. Jo wasn't walking yet, but her legs were growing stronger each day, and Charles held both of her hands and patiently slowed his steps as they mosied around.

It was only when she looked away from the yard and back into the kitchen that she felt a chill — something that wasn't in the air around her, but almost _within_ her. Instinctively, she turned and looked over her shoulder toward the table.

Her mind assured her she couldn't be seeing what she _though_ t she was seeing. An illusion. A trick of light. The cruel joke of a tired mind and a summer night.

Almost as soon as she'd seen her sitting there, stilling her breathing from fear and — _something else, relief?_ —she was gone.

It was only when she'd begun to breath again that it registered she'd dropped a dish, cutting her hand in the process, the shards of glass skittering across the floor, blood dripping down her wrist. Having heard it ( _and did she scream? She might have, her throat felt strangely open now_ ) Charles appeared on the porch, then through the door, Jo on his hip, both wide eyed.

A mouse, she'd said.

 _A wee mouse._

* * *

She began to see Anna in the shadows, in the daylight, around corners and the top of the stairs.

Her nightly ritual with Jo faded away as the wee babe's teething slowed. Still, Elsie rose and downed a glass of scotch, made her eyes heavy so that when she dragged herself upstairs and back to bed she wouldn't be able to tell the outline of Anna from any other house ghosts that haunted her.

One evening, after Jo had been tucked up, Elsie sat in the den, struggling to mend a dress, the needle seeming to slip from her fingers every other stitch. Charles appeared in the doorway, the bottle of scotch in his hand and a deep crease of worry on his brow.

"I was going to suggest a nightcap but. . ." he shrugged, his mouth empty of words.

Elsie stiffened, halted a moment, then steadied herself and focused intently on her sewing, hoping he wouldn't notice how her fingers shook, "I've been giving a little to Jo at night, for her gums," she said, "And before you admonish me for it, you should know that it was suggested by Her Ladyship," — it wasn't a lie, not really, she _had_ suggested it. . .though after the fact.

Charles balked, "How much have you been giving her? By the looks of this bottle, she should be positively squiffy."

"Only enough to wet her gums," Elsie huffed, letting her sewing fall into her lap, "And I might remind you that we're not at Downton anymore and there's no need for you to be policing our spirits."

"I'm not _policing_ them," he said, "I only made to set about pouring us each a glass and realized there's hardly enough left for one," he took a step toward her, which she took as an accusation, "I'm merely confused."

She felt anger welling up in her, a dangerous drone that rang in her ears, made her hands tingle and twitch, her mouth pressing itself into a tight line, "It seems to me you've an idea," she spat, "go on, then, scold me. Clearly you wish to imply that I've been on nightly jags so you might as well get on with it," she laughed bitterly, picking up her sewing with a flourish and casting it aside as she pushed herself unsteadily from the chair, taking an uncertain step forward, "If you think I'm a lush, go on and say it. The conservative English butler marries a penniless Scot, what was he expecting? I masqueraded myself as a proper housekeeper, a proper woman, for _decades_ but you never knew what I came from," she hacked out a laugh, "You knew me for twenty some years before you ever knew about Becky, and even then, there's more unsaid than spoken, and if you knew, you'd hate me for it," she felt her eyes beginning to burn with unshed tears, but she stilled herself, she would not cry— _she wouldn't._

"Elsie," he said gently — but she put her hands out in front of her, keeping him away.

"I don't come from fine stock," she said, her voice a harsh whisper, "I've tried my whole life long to make myself into something I'm _not_ , something _better_ than I am — and like a witch I must have _hexed_ you into loving me, because if you _knew_ what I was — what I _am,_ " she lowered her gaze, her chest tightening, "The daughter of a sot and a slag, with an infirm sister who'd just as well kick you in the face as says she loves you, all of us destitute . . ." she lifted her gaze to look at him then; his face was not as she had expected. Instead of his usual wounded look, he was staring at her with hot anger and it immediately terrified her.

"Stop it," he commanded, his voice a low roar. He took a step toward her and she cowered. Seeing it, his gaze softened, then turned to shame, "Oh, Elsie, I don't mean to frighten you I'm just—" he ran his fingers through his hair, as though he was physically trying to keep his head on straight, "Perhaps I should step away for a moment. I am scared and. . . _angry._ . .and I don't want to say something that I will later regret."

She narrowed her eyes at him, " _Well, well_ isn't that most high and _mighty_ of you, taking the high road," she shook her head, her lips curling up into a bitter grin, "Wouldn't you much rather just give me a slap across the face and be done with it?" she took a step toward him, crossing her arms, "Or is that not how things are done at _Downton Abbey_?"

His lip curled up in disgust, "Any man worth his salt would _never_ strike a woman,"

"Is that what they teach you? When you're a boy learning to be a butler? You come out the other side knowing how to polish a knife — but you wouldn't have a bloody _clue_ what to do if someone shoved one in your face!"

"Elsie, you're not yourself right now — you're being wicked and it doesn't suit you,"

"Doesn't suit _me_?" she yelled, "Doesn't suit _you,_ more like it."

He hesitated "It — it doesn't suit _anyone_ , Elsie, but especially not you. It doesn't become you to be so unfeeling."

"Well," she huffed, " _There's_ the pot calling the kettle black,"

"I've had quite enough of this," he bellowed. She opened her mouth to retort, but from upstairs, Jo began to wail, presumably woken up by their row. He turned and looked toward the stairs, and when he turned back to Elsie, her face was slick with tears.

"I can't," she said quietly, " _I can't,_ "

He sighed, "Put on a pot of tea. I'll tend to her. But we're not done here," he said, eyeing her.

He started for the stairs but doubled back — taking the bottle of scotch with him. Elsie followed him with her gaze, watching until he disappeared from view. She hesitated a moment, then made her way into the darkened hallway to the kitchen. When she rounded the corner, she immediately froze. A scream escaped her before she could cover her mouth, and she retreated back into the hallway, pressing herself against the wall, tears streaming down her face.

She waited a moment, listened to Charles upstairs soothing Jo. When she peaked around the corner into the kitchen again, Anna was gone.

 _ii._

She didn't tell Charles. Or Beryl. Kept it to herself in case she was going mad.

In case she _wasn't._

She _couldn't_ be seeing Anna. Anna, _sweet lass,_ would have gone straight to heaven the way she'd suffered, her kind, sturdy heart, her beautiful soul.

The questioning of her faith, of life after death, commanded her attention and she began to feel herself in a spiral of fear, of pulsing anxiety. Her body ached in a new way — not from age, or the English rain—but from _doubt._

One afternoon, in early August when the air in their home became heavy, and the feeling of anything touching her skin was unbearable, Daisy offered to take Jo for a walk up to the abbey so that Charles and Elsie could have some time to potter around. Dear, sweet Daisy with her innocence still so very intact, even after what life had thrown her by way of anguish.

Despite the fact that her skin was sallow from the mugginess and her body thrumming from the dizzying heat, Elsie allowed herself to be pushed back onto the bed, found the feeling of Charles' touch electrifying, the pain almost searing — but in a gratifying manner. His lips against her neck, his fingers lightly tapping her clavicle, she sighed with relief that she'd giving up wearing stockings around the house.

It didn't take long, however, for that sinking feeling to return, resting itself heavily in her stomach. A heat rose up from her chest, up her neck to her cheeks but it wasn't from how he was loving her — but nervous humiliation. She knew—, as she had known for several weeks now— that she would not be running toward that ecstasy that he'd brought into her life. It had eluded her as of late but she couldn't discern why. He wasn't doing anything different or wrong; it wasn't that her body wasn't _trying_ — because it _was_ , and _she_ was, and _they were_ — but it was like trying to close a jammed door. She could feel that now familiar sense of anticipation building, she took pains to deepen her breathing, soften and open herself to him — but then, _nothing_. And of course, at first, he had noticed — and worried, and been ashamed, thinking he was doing something wrong. And it wasn't him — she was certain of it — but she had nothing to say in proof to convince him otherwise.

Then, one afternoon while Jo was napping, Elsie stole away to use the loo and had a rather humiliating and odd epiphany. No sooner had she begun to enjoy the _one, fleeting moment of her day_ _when she was entirely alone_ that Jo began to fuss from her crib. The sound— so sharp in the silence—startled her such that she tightened up; and realized perhaps for the first time in her life that she had some control over her insides. If she could stop a stream of urine . . .she huffed, _what a vulgar thought_!

But it stayed with her, and that night, as he lay next to her, stroking the length of her thigh with the tips of his fingers, letting them come to rest on the warm, flushed skin of her belly, she stiffened at his touch and began to wonder if there was more of her body to be controlled than she knew.

The first time her body had lost control of itself she had been fascinated and vaguely disgusted. The way her insides rhythmically pulsed around him, how her legs kicked out and her spine arched — all synchronized yet not, intentional yet seemingly accidental. She felt all at once powerful — yet powerless.

That sensation, she thought, could it be replicated? Not for herself— but for him? To spare him ( _and her, oh, to spare her that look of disappointment on his sweet face in the dark?_ ) the feeling of having failed her, but only until she could right herself?

And as they lay there, she without her stockings in the balmy air of early August, she waited and waited and waited as he carried on with his ministrations, and she tried to empty her mind to make room for him, but she kept getting pulled back.. Her heart pounded so harshly against the cage of her ribs that she began to gasp, and then and _only then_ did she push him away, deeply ashamed of herself. And afraid.

More than anything else, _afraid._

"Elsie," he grimaced, "I'm so sorry — did I—?"

"No," she croaked, and before she could speak further, the torrent of tears began. For a solitary moment Charles only watched as she sobbed, the choked crying of someone who, even if they could speak, would not be able to properly articulate what grieved them so.

He waited. And after a moment, when she had begun to calm, he gently inched himself closer to her, taking her into his arms and pressing her face against his bare chest.

"You've been resisting this for _quite_ some time, haven't you?" he said, kissing her hair softly. She only cried harder, bringing her hand to her mouth to muffle her sobs, which were beginning to embarrass her beyond measure; yet _another_ aspect of her existence she'd seemingly lost control of.

"I'm unraveling," she hiccuped, grasping for him, pulling herself up and letting her arms hang limply around his neck. He rubbed her back soothingly, resting his chin on her shoulder as he hugged her tighter.

"I've got you," he said, turning his face slightly to kiss her cheek, "You're still here, _still whole_ , I promise."

"I don't know what's the matter with me," she whispered wearily, settling herself fully into his lap.

"You're wracked with _grief_ ," he said, but she stopped him.

"It's _more_ than that," she said, wiping her fingers across her lashes, "I've. . .there's something wrong with me, _inside of me_ somehow."

His chest tightened, his breath stolen. Could she be sick again? As before, that time when she was sick with worry about an illness that never existed but could have? That still could? "Elsie — it's not—?"

She lifted her face to look at him, eyes gone wide, "Oh, _oh Charles, no,_ I don't think so, anyway. It's just. . ."

He lowered his eyes, his cheeks rosied up at the insinuation, "You've not quite been. . .enjoying our. . .time together."

She exhaled smoothly, treading lightly, "It's not that I haven't been. . . _enjoying_ the time it's just—"

"I hope it doesn't seem coarse of me to say but. . .it's not _felt_ the same. I could sense that something had changed but. . .it's not something I could articulate and even if I could, I doubt I have the capacity to fix it," he grinned nervously, "I may be an old man, but I'm like a skittish schoolboy in these matters,"

She reached up, giving him a sad smile as she pressed her hand to this cheek, "We're both learning," she said gently, "And it's not that you're doing anything wrong. It's just. . ." she bit her lip, "Something's hindering it. I climb and climb, just as I always did but —" she felt her face grow hot, tears beginning to stream down her face again, "That mirth you bring me — _and only ever you_ — it's as though it's stolen from me at the final moment and —" she stopped, trying to catch her breath, gather her thoughts, "— I don't know what's happening to me, Charles. I've lied to you, things I've not said, things I've done to try to hide the truth and — and that's not the woman I am."

"I know that, Elsie,"

"But I've lied," she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand as though she wanted to shove the truth back inside of her where it could wallow.

"Not to hurt me," he said, "Not with malice,"

"It doesn't matter," she said, "It sets a precedent,"

"What's brought this about, Elsie?"

She sighed, letting her eyes flutter closed, " _Anna_ ," she said simply.

"I see," he said, "I know it's wearing on you still, but how can I possibly do anything to alleviate it if you don't tell me?"

"It's not the grief," she said quietly, "I think . . .I sometimes think that I _see_ her,"

He didn't speak, but felt air rushing into his mouth, drying his tongue, and the look on her eyes made him realize he must be staring agape at her.

"I'm going mad," she said, turning away from him, "I'm certain of it,"

"No, no," he hushed, "Elsie, please. Come here,"

She flicked her eyes up at him, hopeful.

"Elsie," he whispered, " _Please_ , let me hold you."

She sighed, falling into his arms again. When she'd settled, her ear against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat strangely comforting, she felt him clear his throat.

"I'm certain I've never told you this because, frankly, I've never told _anyone,_ " he said, "But there was a period of several weeks after Lady Sybil died when I would be walking the corridors, checking on everything before I went up to bed, and I could have _sworn_ that I saw her in the halls. Her hair in a long braid down her back, the same housecoat she'd worn since she was seventeen years old, that little impish grin. It was just as any other time I'd see her sneaking off for a biscuit late at night," he sighed, stroking her hair gently, "And for a fleeting moment, everything was right in the world. Everything was _just_ as it ought to have been. But, then, in a blink she'd be gone. I couldn't say for certain but — I suspect that Her Ladyship may have experienced similar transient hauntings. Sometimes I would serve tea and she would startle without reason, as though something had caught her eye, but as she turned, it disappeared from view."

Elsie lifted her head, looking up at him, "Oh, Charles, that's it. That's _precisely_ it."

"It doesn't comfort _you_ though. . ."

"It _frightens_ me," she said, "If she's ghosting about in the afterlife, than she's not in heaven?"

Charles shrugged, "I tend to lean toward one's grieving mind playing tricks on them but. . ." he sighed, "I understand that I cannot be sure of life's mysteries, and I accept that I could be wrong. But," he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her forehead, "I can guarantee you that if Anna still lingers here, it's _not_ because she's haunting you, and it's _not_ because she's been condemned to hell," he reached up and smoothed her fringe from her forehead, caressing her cheeks lightly with his thumbs, "To watch her little girl be so well cared for, so loved, in this world that was so _unjustly_ cruel when she was living in it," he sighed, pulling Elsie into an embrace, "Well, I should think to dear Anna, _that would be heaven_."

 _iii._

The color began to come back to Elsie, but in only pale hues at first; the dewy leaf of a flower she was tending, the rosiness of Jo's cheeks when she laughed at Charles' stories, the depth of his blue eyes when he looked over at her from his side of the bed upon waking.

By the end of the summer, one that seemed to have lingered on a strangely long time for England, Jo's personality had become so clearly defined that no longer was she simply _Anna's child;_ Jo Bates was a person, however tiny, all her own.

One humid night Elsie lay with her on the bed, the window open with a hot breeze blowing in. Charles stood in the washroom, dabbing his neck and face with a cool cloth. Jo fussed until finally, Elsie freed her from her little cotton smock and let her roam about the bed in only her nappy.

"Free as the wind," Charles laughed, "If only it was proper for the rest of us to be laying about in our unmentionables."

Elsie smiled, wiping the wisps of frizzy hair from her face. Jo tried valiantly to push herself up on the bed, but it wasn't quite steady enough, and she plopped down, bouncing a bit as her bottom hit the blankets.

" _Almost_ , darling," Elsie said, reaching over to pet Jo's hair gently.

"Mim mim mim mim," Jo cooed, crawling into Elsie's lap. Playfully furrowing her brow, Elsie tipped her head to one side inquisitively.

"Yes, darling, tell me all about it. . ."

" _Mim_ ," Jo said, her little face scrunched up into a mimicked frown of her own, and she reached up to tug at the collar of Elsie's nightgown, resting her head against Elsie's bosom and popping her thumb into her mouth.

"Well Charles. . .I think it's happened," Elsie said quietly as he stepped into the room, switching off the washroom's overhead light and settling himself into bed.

"What's that, pet?"

"I think Jo's named me," she said, looking down at the sleeping child who had relaxed fully into her embrace.

"Are you sure she just doesn't enjoy the sound of the word?" he said, throwing back the covers and sliding beneath them, tickling her calves with his toes.

"She doesn't ever babble it unless she wants me to hold her," Elsie said, shrugging slightly, "She's trying to talk, trying to say what she wants or doesn't want but —" she sighed, "She _mim mim mims_ at me, and only me. So, I think that's what, or who, she's decided I am."

Charles tried to suppress a laugh. She turned her head to him and gamesomely narrowed her eyes, " _Don't you dare,_ " she said, "I warned you, didn't I? You're next. She's listening and hearing everything you say; clearly she hangs on your words more than mine!"

Charles blanched, "I suppose you're right. Perhaps. . .I should offer her a suggestion."

"Perhaps you should," Elsie said, rocking Jo gently, "She's whip smart and could no doubt come up with something considerably daffier than _Donk._ "


	15. Bloodline

_i._

"Alright then, Jo, let's have another go at it, shall we?" Charles sighed, lifting the baby from his lap and settling her onto the bed so that she was sitting, staring up at him curiously. Elsie stood at the looking glass in the washroom, running a brush through her hair as she prepared to plait it before joining him, tucking in for the night.

"Don't wind her up, Charles," Elsie warned, "She should be quieting down for bed now—unless you want to be up half the night."

"I was hoping that, perhaps, if we practice our words she'll sleep on them and then maybe they'll stick," he gently booped Jo's nose and she giggled, " _Chaaaarles_ ," he said, "Can you say _Chaaaarles,_ Jo?"

He heard Elsie snicker but he didn't take his eyes off the baby in front of him. It was almost as though she narrowed her gaze, sussing out whether or not she wanted to indulge him. She flashed him a little grin, the very peaks of her first teeth showing as she did, and then, she shook her head defiantly.

" _Chaaaarles_ ," he said again, "Come now, it's not so hard."

"Chaaaaa," Jo echoed, handing him her stuffed rabbit.

"No, that's your rabbit," he said.

" _Bunny,_ " Elsie corrected, "Nothing cuddly about the word rabbit."

"Fine," Charles said, "That's your _bunny_ Jo," he said, handing the stuffed animal back to her, " _Bun-ny_ ,"

"Nee nee," she said, thwacking the poor thing against the bed.

"Well, we're inching closer to the actual English language," Charles sighed. He put his hand to his chest, "Chaaarles," he said again.

Jo looked up at him, "Cha,"

"Chaaarles,"

"Chaaaaaaa cha," Jo laughed, "Chaa chaaa!"

"Cha _rrrrr_ les," he enunciated, "You're _very_ close, but you've got to get the ' _r_ ' in there," he lifted his gaze just as Elsie came into the room from the bath, shedding her housecoat and creeping over to the bed, leaning across the foot of it to tickle Jo.

" _Charrrrrles_ ," Elsie laughed, stretching his name along her deep brogue, "Don't encourage her, she'll have my accent," she laughed, laying Jo back against the blankets and tickling her tummy. Jo kicked her feet happily, reaching up to grab Elsie's long braid.

"Mim, mim, mim!" she said, tugging Elsie's face down.

"Don't pull," Elsie said gently, "Do you want a kiss? Ask nicely."

Jo frowned, "Mim?"

"Well, close enough," Elsie said, peppering Jo's face with kisses, much to the baby's delight. She squealed, and Elsie lifted her up into her arms, throwing back the covers and crawling into bed next to Charles, who wore a frown of his own.

"She'll get there," Elsie said, hugging Jo to her chest, "Give her time."

"I know," Charles said, "Perhaps I'm a bit. . . _jealous_ that she named you first."

Elsie shrugged, "Well, she got the idea from _you._ "

"I suppose that's true," he said, reaching over to gently stroke Jo's hair.

"Have you got a story for us?" Elsie said, looking up at him with a sparkle of childish glee in her eye.

"Is it that time again already?" he yawned, glancing at the clock on their night table, "Any requests, Jo?"

"I know a story _I'd_ like to hear." Elsie said, looking down at Jo, who had already settled quite contentedly into her arms, her thumb popped into her mouth, her large blue eyes staring in wait up at Charles.

" _You've_ heard all my stories," he laughed.

"Tell me about Alice," Elsie said softly, "About your days on the stage. How did you meet her?"

"Oh, Elsie," Charles winced, "You don't want to know about all that _drivel_."

"It's not _drivel,_ darling, it's your _life_. And you're my husband and I want to know about your life. All of it, even the unsavory bits," she bit her lip prettily, " _Especially_ the unsavory bits."

Charles sighed, reaching over to pet Jo's soft hair, "I'm not sure it's a story for her _demoiselle_ ears,"

"Then save the naughty bits for after she falls asleep," Elsie whispered, giving him a slight wink.

"It's not _nearly_ as glamorous as you think," he said, "But I suppose now that I am retired from service, and we know Jo won't betray my confidence, I could regale a few stories from those days gone by."

"We'd like that very much wouldn't we, Jo?" Elsie said.

"You've twisted my arm," Charles conceded, "Should I begin from the beginning?"

"Mhm," Elsie said, "I've always wondered how you found yourself on the stage in the first place. . ."

"That would be the conwork of one _Charles Grigg_ , who I know you're familiar with," Charles sighed, "I had just left my position at Thrushcross and had accepted a position as second footman at Downton. However, I had a bit of time to myself and— as I was only just nineteen— thought I might as well bide my time in London until the family returned from the season. It was, of course, an exciting time to be in London and I met up with young Charles Grigg, who— though he was but _seventeen_ at the time—was far more street-wise than I and had immediate plans to make us rich."

Elsie giggled, "And you took him up on that?"

"I _did_ ," Charles sighed "And of course that was a decision I would come to regret, but I was a young lad and I admit, the pull of the footlights was enticing. Even the most tawdry of music halls seemed impossibly thrilling to us. There was plenty of drink to be had, pretty girls to sit upon our laps, hobnobbing with some of the finest musicians and dancers in London. I sang, mostly — did some conjuring, illusions. For a time I even had a juggling act."

" _That_ I'd pay to see," Elsie said, "And I bet a great many people did?"

"Not as many as we'd've liked," Charles said, "Although the act we had with Alice was drew our biggest crowds. She was a marvelous dancer."

"And you fancied her?" Elsie said, her eyes sparkling.

"I did —and so did half of _Europe_ ," Charles laughed, "But I loved her _offstage_ just as much as everyone else loved her _onstage._ She was a nice girl, Alice was. Very talented," he shrugged, "But she wanted an extraordinary life. And I knew I was going to come back to Yorkshire. I had a bit of fun, but of course I never harbored any fantasies about making my life on the stage. Grigg was sparkly eyed, willing to be conniving to get what he wanted. . .and I think that was attractive to Alice. Why wouldn't it be? We were all so young. And Grigg was so cocksure, had such a lust for adventure. . ." he shook his head, "But he wasn't an honest fellow and eventually, of course, that was his downfall."

"And of course he came crawling back to _you_ for help," Elsie said.

"He did. Once Alice was gone, he had no one else on his side. That was how he lived his life, I suppose."

"But he said Alice wished she'd've married _you_ ," Elsie said, reaching over and gently running her fingers along his arm, "So in the end, he didn't even have his wife, did he?"

"No point in dredging up those old ghosts," Charles said, reaching for her hand, bringing it to his lips, "Alice Neal was not the woman I needed on my side."

"You wondered about her, though? All those years after, once you'd come to Downton? Otherwise why would you have kept her picture?"

"I did wonder," he said, letting his gaze wander to the night table, where a framed picture from their wedding stood watch over their days, "But then, the wound healed," he looked down into her arms, "Well, that put her right to sleep didn't it?"

"Aye," she said softly, "But _I'm_ still awake,"

"Put her down," he said, leaning over to gently kiss Elsie's lips, "And I'll tell it again; and make it sound a little more _risque_."

ii.

"I don't think she cares for it," Charles said, furrowing his brow as he glanced across the table to where Elsie was valiantly trying to encourage Jo to have a bite of her eggs. As children do, Jo had progressed to trying various and sundry soft morsels, though her seemingly refined palette presented challenges; unless Mrs Patmore sent up something special, their day to day meals were fairly bland and uninteresting.

"I've yet to find one thing she _does_ care for," Elsie huffed, pushing her plate away and letting her face push into her hands. After heaving a mighty sigh, she lifted her gaze just in time to see Jo drop a fistful of eggs from her perch in the wooden high chair onto the floor.

" _Jo-Anna_ ," Charles said firmly, though it was playful and Jo knew it, looking up at him with puckish little grin. For a moment they stared at one another until Elsie broke their concentration, scooting her chair back across the stone floor, the irksome noise grating against her already frayed nerves.

"She's got to eat _something_ ," she muttered, plodding over to the stove where she furtively poured herself another piping hot cup of tea. _Her third_. Of course Charles noticed, but said nothing.

"What about peaches?" he asked, lifting his napkin to dab the crumbs from his mouth, "I always liked them as a child. I'm sure I must have had them even as a little boy. I can't remember ever _disliking_ them."

Elsie turned quickly toward him, hand on her hip, which jutted out impetuously toward him, "Have you got a peach tree I don't know about?" she said, "Unless you'd be willing to make a special trip into the village, or you can c _onjure one up,_ we've got no peaches to speak of."

Charles shrugged, "It's a mild morning, I don't see why we couldn't all go into town. Make a day of it, even. Go to that teashop you love for luncheon."

She craned her neck to look out the window, her eyes turned upward at the sky. It did appear to be a rather nice day indeed, the end of the summer when everything was still lush and the days raced on, bright and verdant.

Turning back to the table, she chuckled at the sight of them: Charles with a soft puppydog look about him; a remarkably boyish feature for such a large man. And Jo, with her little pixie nose and sparkling blue eyes.

She was no match for their sweetness.

" _Alright_ ," she said, lifting her hands in surrender, "But I want to be back before midday. I don't want her to get too much sun, she's so fair like Anna. . ."

"We'll put her in the pram, she'll be _fine_ ," Charles said, rising from the table and lifting Jo into his arms, "Shall we go adventuring today?"

Jo clapped her hands agreeably and Charles gave Elsie the slightest wink as he turned on his heels and headed off to prepare for their journey.

* * *

As it was still early yet in the day, it wasn't unbearably hot, but Charles still huffed and puffed all the way into the village. Elsie laughed, looping her arm through his, putting a hand on Jo's pram.

"We're not getting any younger are we," she sighed, reaching a free hand up to lower the brim of her hat slightly, shielding her eyes from the sun so that she might see as the village came into view. Not many folk were out, but there were several children in the path up ahead, splashing one another with puddle water.

"Before Jo, I would have been tempted to chide those children," Charles said, smiling at them as they passed by, the squealing kids indifferent to them, a world away as it were, "Now I wouldn't dare steal their joy."

Elsie laughed gently, "You'd've been a such a good Da," she said, immediately stiffening next to him, as though it were a thought she'd never meant to let overflow from within her heart. She tucked her chin apologetically and waited for him to redirect the conversation, silently hoping he hadn't heard her.

"My life would have never been conducive to fatherhood," he said simply, "No more than yours would have permitted you to be a mother." He paused, tipping his head slightly, "I suppose I always assumed you didn't harbor any regrets about that."

She shrugged, "I never _yearned_ for motherhood — and, until Jo, I wasn't even sure I had it in me to love a child properly," she lowered her gaze, her voice no more than a whisper, "I never would have dared bear any bairns of my own, lest they were afflicted, like Becky."

"I can't fathom you capable of turning away from your own child," he said, slowing his steps, "I can only ever see you in my mind's eye loving them _furiously_."

"If I'd had them with _you._ . ." she said, biting her lip prettily as she glanced up at him, gauging his reaction. He paused in his walking, jolting the pram just slightly and, as a result, Jo perked up, squinting up at the two of them.

He sighed, reaching over along the handle of the pram, stroking her fingers lightly, "I remember when Her Ladyship was expecting Sybil, there was such an air of change in the house. Of _possibility_ and excitement. And His Lordship, whenever he looked at her, had such a look of adoration about him — but also, pride. Not boastful, you see . . . just the glory of fatherhood, I suppose," he sighed, looking away from her, down toward where his feet scuffed nervously against the dirt road, "I should think I would have behaved in much the same manner, had I been given the opportunity."

Elsie cocked her head thoughtfully, "I suppose I'd not thought about how a _man_ would feel," she said, "Bairns are women's work, and it changes everything about for her. Your heart and soul are completely given up before they're even born. And it's a sacrifice. A woman's body is never the same after."

Charles cringed, "I suppose not," he sighed, raising his eyes but not meeting her gaze, not yet, "But rest assured I wouldn't have minded _any_ of that," he said, "I should think I would have been perfectly chuffed to show you off," he raised his hands playfully, enunciating each word theatrically,"— _my wife!_ My woman! Bearing my children! Raising them into fine young lads—"

"Or _lassies_ ," she said, pulling a face at Jo, who was feeling thoroughly ignored. Elsie's attentions made her incredulous frown melt into a pleased smile.

"Yes," Charles said quietly, "Daughters," he hummed nostalgically and she knew he was thinking of Lady Mary.

"You had a taste of fatherhood with her," Elsie said gently, "Those stolen moments when she'd sneak downstairs, how she had you wrapped around her little finger from the start. How proud you were of her at every turn," Elsie clucked her tongue, "Lady Mary could do _no wrong_ in your eyes."

Charles laughed, blushing a bit.

"And how you looked at her on her wedding day, _beaming—"_ she sighed, "You'd've looked at a daughter of your own that way."

He did lift his face then, feeling a love bloom in his chest at the realization that she had faith in him in that regard.

"You really think I would have been a proper father?"

"Aye," she said quietly, "I think Jo agrees. Lord knows you're the closest thing _she'll_ ever have."

He looked down at Jo, who smiled at him, reaching her pudgy hands up, wanting very much to be released from her pram so that she might explore, or cuddle into his embrace.

"I think we'd've had beautiful children, Elsie" he said earnestly, "Beautiful and kind and industrious. . ." he cleared his throat, wondering if his words dripped with sentimentality, "I'd've been a proud father, indeed."

"Oh, Charles," Elsie said, laughing sadly, "I know it's not the same because she's not really _ours,_ " she said, looking sweetly down at Jo, "But neither was Lady Mary _yours—_ or Anna _mine_."

He acknowledged the thought with a small hum.

"What I'm saying, Charles," she said, reaching up to grasp his upper arm, giving it a gentle reassuring squeeze, "Is that bloodlines are strong, but they're not everything. Your heart may not pump Crawley blood but it certainly doesn't mean you don't love Lady Mary as though it did," she shook her head slightly, shrugging a bit as she continued, "Anna may not have come from my body, been nourished at my breast — but Lord knows I did everything I could to protect that girl just as I would have my own flesh and blood. And that includes Jo."

"You're a wise woman," Charles said, leaning down to softly kiss her cheek. It startled her; though it was hardly a public display, they were no longer on the path but on the periphery of the village. She felt herself blush slightly, her blood swimming in her veins and dizzying her until her cheeks were a pretty pink. Up ahead, the unknown little children laughed, their voices rising up into the sky only to rain down where Charles and Elsie stood, bathing them for a moment in a memory that they only shared in their hushed imaginations.

iii.

As was often the case, Elsie heard Beryl Patmore coming up the drive to their cottage before she saw her. She and Jo were sprawled out on a blanket in the yard on a Sunday afternoon in late August. Summer was on its last leg in Yorkshire and Charles had set about trimming the hedgerows while his girls looked on.

"Hello!" Elsie called, waving to the cook, whose red-faced presence was inching closer to the yard.

"I think you ought to put Jo down for a nap," Beryl said, trying to catch her breath from the trudge up from the abbey, "I've to relay a message to you and Mr Carson and I don't think she ought to over hear it."

Elsie frowned, her breath hitching, "She's not even a year old, how could she _possibly_ —"

"I'm not willing to take the risk," Beryl said firmly. Charles meandered over from where he'd been clipping, wiping the sweat from his brow. He smiled when he saw Mrs Patmore, having not heard what she'd said upon arriving.

"How are you this fine day, Mrs Patmore?" he said, "I do hope you've come bearing tarts."

"Do I bloody look like I've come bearing tarts, Mr. Carson?" she snapped, "Unless I'm hiding them in my skirts, does it look like I bloody well have anything?"

He blanched, "I'm sorry, I —"

"Mrs Patmore has brought us bad news," Elsie said, though she was still quite confused, "Why don't you come inside. Charles will put on a pot of tea, I'll try to coax Jo into a nap. . .and we can hear about whatever earth shattering news you have."

* * *

Having not succeeded in getting Jo to sleep, Elsie settled instead for plopping her down on in the middle of the kitchen with a wooden spoon and a few pots and pans — creating a ruckus would, she hoped, drown out whatever it was that Mrs Patmore had come to say.

Of course, she'd not considered that it might make it difficult for the three adults to have a conversation.

"I'm not sure I've heard you correctly," Charles said, lowering himself into a chair at the kitchen table, "His Lordship has said what in regards to Mr Bates?"

"He's going to bear witness to the hanging," Beryl said, "He couldn't imagine that you or Mrs Carson would find it suitable to attend, not with Jo's first birthday just around the corner. You already bore the brunt of Anna's death. He feels, I think, that he ought to do his duty to Mr Bates— but also spare you the tragedy of having to experience the loss all over again."

"Well," Elsie said, reaching over to take Charles' hand, "This is indeed difficult news to hear. I suppose I was hoping that they would delay his hanging indefinitely. Or pardon him."

Beryl shook her head, "His Lordship asked me to relay the message to you _only_ if I thought that you could stand to hear it. I admit, I was rather impressed that he acknowledges what a close lot we are."

"What has Her Ladyship said on the matter?" Charles asked.

"She understands why His Lordship feels he should go, but I think she's worried, and why wouldn't she be?"

The three of them jumped as Jo thwacked her spoon hard against a large soup pot. Elsie yelped, and Charles cleared his throat, "I think I shall take young Jo for a short walk. I could use some air . . ."

He was up and gone before Elsie could protest, and when she and Beryl were alone, she reached up to quickly wipe a fallen tear from her cheek.

"Poor Mr Bates," Elsie said quietly, looking down at her lap, "I only hope the thought of seeing Anna again will give him peace."

Beryl sighed, "Maybe that's why you keep seeing her," she said, reaching over to take Elsie's hand. Elsie had, several weeks prior, confessed her visions to her dear friend. Once she'd opened up to Charles about it, she became less afraid of admitting to it.

"Because she's waiting around for him?"

Beryl shrugged, "Wouldn't you? If it was —?" she nodded toward the porch, where Charles stood, helping Jo as she made her way precariously down the steps.

Elsie laughed sadly, "Of course I would — he'd never find his cufflinks without me."

They sat at the table in silence for a heavy moment, their cups of tea growing cold between them.

"Do you think Mr Bates really did kill his wife? Or Mr Green?" Beryl asked quietly, picking at the frayed end of the tablecloth.

Elsie sighed, "I'd like very much to think that he did _not_ , but I know how much he loved Anna, and how he would have done anything for her. . .I don't think his first wife was a nice woman, and I can't condone him murdering her on account of that fact and certainly Mr Green was," she shuddered, biting her lip until it went white, ". . .I suppose I wouldn't be surprised, exactly, if he had."

"Do you think Mr Carson would?"

"Would what?"

"Kill for you?"

Elsie inhaled sharply, "Beryl Patmore, _good God!_ "

"I can't imagine him killing anyone for any reason," Beryl mused, "But then again, I would have said the same about Mr Bates . . ."

Before Elsie could retort, she caught sight of Charles hovering in the doorway. Jo was fussing in his arms.

"Sorry," he said, "She's _mimming_ at me."

Elsie chuckled, holding her arms out.

"Mimming?" Beryl said.

"She's named me," Elsie said, taking Jo into her lap, "It's a long story but. . .she calls me _Mim_."

"That's very dear," Beryl said, reaching over and stroking Jo's cheek. She turned to look up at Charles, "And what doth the young lady call you, Mr Carson?"

"Well, we're not quite there yet . . ." he blushed, "We're working on Charles but so far we haven't made it beyond—"

" _Cha cha_ ," Elsie giggled.

Beryl laughed in a way that could only be described as a blat, which she immediately tried to conceal by bringing her hands to her mouth. Of course, this only made Elsie laugh harder, and soon Jo's giggles joined the chorus.

"It's _not_ funny, her faculty with language should be much better . . ." Charles blustered, albeit weakly.

"Darling, I'm sorry. You're right —" Elsie started, but her laughter welled up again and she had to turn her face from him, burying it in Jo's soft hair.

"Lighten up, Mr Carson, at least it's just a harmless nonsense word." Beryl said.

"That's right," Elsie countered, "At least you're not named after a word that means miserable and — what, flimsy?"

"All right, all right; I concede," Charles said, sitting down at the table, "It's bloody well better than _donk._ "

The laughter died down and the kitchen grew very quiet, hollow nearly. All three of them turned, one by one, and watched Jo hum happily, unaware, in Elsie's lap.

"It's probably best she's so little," Beryl said quietly, "She won't remember any of this, will only know what you tell her. . .and maybe you're not mum and dad but you're Mim and. . . _Chacha—_ and that's something." She reached over and took Jo's tiny hand, stroking it gently. Jo smiled at her.

"It's not _something_ ," Elsie said quietly, reaching over and settling her hand atop Charles', "It's _everything._ "


	16. Ever Still

i.

Summer turned over into autumn all at once; it seemed as though the night before Elsie had been kicking at the sheets of their bed, sweat pearling at her temples and by the next sunset she was tossing another quilt onto the bed.

"Do we have another afghan?" Charles asked, Jo's head resting sleepily against his shoulder as he frowned at her crib, "I don't think this little blanket here will be enough for her."

Elsie sighed as she slid into bed, "We haven't — but I think Miss Baxter is making her one for her birthday. I know she's made quite a few dresses already."

Charles paused, pressing his lips together a moment. He bent over to release Jo into her crib but as soon as he did, she squirmed awake, protesting loudly.

"Oh, come now Jo, we've all got to tuck in," he said, bouncing her gently. He looked over at Elsie helplessly and she just shook her head sadly.

"It's next week. . ." she said quietly. He thought perhaps she'd say more, but instead she just sunk beneath the covers, pulling them up to her chin and turning onto her side, rolling away from him. Jo fussed, banging her feet deliberately against his shoulder.

" _Jo-Anna_ ," Charles warned, "That will _not_ be tolerated."

The baby blinked. So infrequent were Charles' outbursts since her arrival that the raising of his voice surprised them in equal measure. He softened, reaching up to stroke Jo's hair softly.

He made to settle her into her crib again— and again, she protested. The bed creaked as Elsie turned over toward them, propping herself up on an elbow.

"Bring her here," she sighed, her eyes darkly rimmed from exhaustion.

"We can't well _indulge_ her," he said, "She's got to learn early not to whine or fuss."

"Spare the rod, spoil the child?" Elsie mused, making no attempt to hide her eye rolling.

"Elsie," Charles sighed, his shoulders heaving, "We can't let her run amok! Children need rules and order. They need to be taught right from wrong straight away without any dithering."

"And what qualifies _you_ to know what's best for raising children?" she said, "I hardly think it will harm her — she's not even a year old. Children need to be _held_ , Charles."

"I'm hardly arguing to the contrary — and I've certainly spent more time around children than _you,_ " he said, though it was more a matter of fact statement than a slight, "The young ladies I was privileged to watch grow up became very much upstanding members of society, mind you."

"As if _you_ had anything to do with it!" Elsie laughed, "They had nannies, governess and tutors — not to mention anything their little hearts desired served on a silver platter!"

"More to the point! They had all of those privileges and yet they grew up into lovely, kind women. Good wives and mothers—"

"Precisely as they were _bred_ to, Charles!" Elsie huffed, sitting up swiftly, digging her elbow into the downy pillow, "Jo's lost both of her parents before her first birthday, she's no family except for two old codgers who've hardly enough left of life for _each other_ , let alone her. She's drawn the shortest straw and I don't know that there's anything we can do to alter her fate. We can't give her a life but we can love her — and _bloody hell_ , Charles, that's all I'm trying to do."

She reached a hand up to furiously wipe the tears from her eyes, turning away from him.

Jo had settled sleepily into his arms, her head nestled against his neck. He sat down on the foot of the bed, careful not to jostle either of them. He waited a moment in the quiet of the room, where darkness had fallen over them like the wool blankets, silencing the night. Jo began to fuss quietly in her sleep, reaching for the lapel of Charles' night shirt. Despite himself, he glanced down, then took her tiny hand between his thumb and forefinger, stroking it gently.

"I remember one evening I was at Downton after you'd gone home—working on ledgers I think—and Anna came stumbling into my sitting room," Elsie said from her pillow, which had gone damp from where she'd cried against it. "She had a look about her — like a spooked deerling— and of course I feared for her in that moment, remembering when I found her there after she was attacked. I sat her down, offered her a cuppa — and she didn't speak right away." She rolled over and sat up, wrapping her arms tightly round herself, "I was so frightened that something was wrong, that she'd lost the bairn but—" she lowered her gaze, her eyelashes fluttering prettily against her cheek before she raised her eyes to him, "— oh Charles, she was _so_ excited. Shaking, nearly. She was just overwhelmed with love for the little person and had wanted to share it with another woman, even though she knew I couldn't understand entirely." She smiled sadly at the memory, "We just sat together for a time and I let her natter on about all the hopes and fears she had. I listened and I felt the love she had for the child. I really _felt_ it, Charles," she said, her voice cracking a bit, "I cherish the memory and I draw on it for the strength to love this little girl," She looked up, holding his gaze, "Not just as I would love a child, but how Anna would."

She bit her lip, waiting for him to drop her gaze. He didn't, but instead, leaned in to kiss her soundly. When he pulled back, he sighed, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Something tells me there's not much difference." he whispered, laying Jo into her arms.

* * *

 _ii._

 _The warm weight against her chest, a tiny fist curling and reaching. Wrinkled little feet resting against her soft belly. The quiet, slightly frustrated mewls. Pursed, rosy lips. Cloudy blue eyes hidden behind translucent lids tightly closed against the light. The wee shell of an ear listening for a heartbeat, the only familiar sound. Downy hair tickling the underside of her breast._

 _A gentle tug, that was all. The quiet suckling. The sweet, soft, milky breath of the bairn as she stroked her cheek, her sleepy eyes gazing upward._

 _She ached — a heaviness in her chest that seemed to pull her down, a weighted pain that stung only for a moment, when the baby latched on. And even then, she was so comforted, so in love with the child in her arms, that she hardly minded at all. Around her, the air was warm, the din of their home a salve._

 _The sound of her gentle tutting as she lifted the baby's head. The prickling feeling as her milk let down. The rush of adoration when the tingling subsided and her muscles relaxed, her shoulders settling into the pillows propping her up against the headboard._

 _Slow at first, then all at once, the room darkens around her and before she can catch up to the dream, it's not a baby at her breast, but Anna's lifeless body in her arms. And the metallic scent of blood hangs in the air, and it's warm and wet against her thighs, and her chest, and her face — and Anna's gone, and somewhere a baby begins to wail, and she's lost her breath even though she can see it puffing before her face in a haze of frost._

 _She tries to stand, to carry Anna somewhere warm and dry and safe, but there's too much blood and she's slipping as she makes to stand, dizzy from the scent that turns her stomach — and still, the only sound is —_

Elsie sat bolt upright, the blankets clutched her chest following her up and pulling on Charles in the process. He grumbled in his sleep, tried to win them back — Elsie didn't move, didn't breath. She stared out into the darkness of the bedroom ahead of her, waiting for the blood to return to her, for her hands to stop trembling. Only as the dream faded, their bedroom coming into view, did she hear Jo's fussing. She lowered her arms, looking down at the space between her and Charles, where Jo looked up at her indignantly, flapping her hands against the blanket's hem.

Struggling to swallow back her tears, Elsie reached her shaking hand down to stroke Jo's hair. The bairn warmed to her touch, leaning into it as if by rote. After a moment she began to scoot across the bed toward her, crawling and perhaps half-rolling her way into Elsie's lap.

"Mim," she peeped, letting her head loll against Elsie's soft bosom, popping her thumb into her mouth.

"Elsie?" From the pillows next to her, Charles propped himself up, yawning widely. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, "Are you alright? Is Jo alright?"

She nodded, clearing her throat, "I — I've had a bit of a nightmare," she admitted, hugging Jo tightly to her and kissing the top of her head, "And I must have woken her up with my thrashing about."

"Heavens," Charles blustered, running a hand through his bedraggled hair, "Would you . . .like to talk about it? It must have been quite horrible to have woken you up so violently."

Elsie shrugged, "It's nothing, darling. I'm sorry we woke you."

"Well, we're all awake now." Charles muttered, sitting up and fluffing his pillows a bit before settling against the headboard, reaching down to stroke Jo's hair a moment before letting his hand come to rest gently on her back.

"What will we tell her?" Elsie whispered, letting her chin settle atop Jo's head.

"About what?"

"About her parents." Elsie winced.

Charles sighed warily, "That. . .they were good, hardworking people who loved her very, very much and died far too soon."

"Sooner or later she'll have to know the truth."

"Which is what — exactly?" Charles asked, "The Bates' _were_ good, hardworking people who —"

"Once she's old enough to listen to how they natter on in the village about her father —"

"Gossips will have _no_ place—"

"Gossips will _always_ have a place, Charles, there's nothing to be done about that." she said, staring into the darkness, away from him. "The trouble is, it won't be fabrication. Mr Bates hung and his dear, sweet wife died in childbirth because of a violence done unto her that we didn't protect her from."

"Elsie, we couldn't have. You could not have saved either of them—"

"She was in _my_ charge, Charles."

"It could have just as well happened on the street—"

"But it didn't," she shrieked, startling Jo, who protested with a sleepy whine, "It happened at Downton. It happened _downstairs._ She hid in my sitting room. She came to _me,_ Charles."

"And you took care of her," he said gently, "And you told me yourself you tried to instill the fear of God in the louse who hurt her. . ." she didn't speak, just buried her face in Jo's hair. Charles reached a finger up to gently tilt Elsie's chin up so that he could look at her, "Surely you don't think _you're_ to blame for all this. Surely you don't think Anna would have blamed you."

Elsie sniffled, "I don't know — but I am afraid that Jo will. When she grows up."

"How could—"

"And if Anna _doesn't_ blame me — why does she haunt me, Charles? Why do I see her everywhere, why do I dream of her, why do I hear her voice and see her blood—"

"I don't think she's bloody _haunting_ you," he said, letting his hand fall from her face and settle against her lap, she did meet his gaze again, and held it, waiting for him to continue. "More than likely she's been trying to comfort you," he sighed, rubbing her upper thigh gently, "I'm hardly one to believe in ghosts, Elsie, but if Anna would come to you for any reason in her non-corporal form, it wouldn't be to saddle you with guilt — it would be to _absolve_ you of it."

* * *

 _iii._

"If you don't keep an eye on her that cake will be on the floor before you can strike a match," Beryl warned, nodding toward the table where Jo was sitting on Daisy's lap, scheming silently as she stared at her birthday cake. Elsie chuckled, drying her hands on a dish towel and patting the front of her skirt for the matchbook.

"Daisy's got her," she said, "Don't you, love?"

"She looks like she's got a plan to stick her hand right smack in the middle of it," the girl laughed, gently batting Jo's hand away from the enticing buttermilk frosting.

Charles appeared behind her, his arms filled with carefully wrapped parcels, "She's quite the plotter when she wants to be," he said, but he was looking at Elsie, his eyes sparkling. She pressed her lips together, blushing slightly. Beryl elbowed her almost immediately after the exchange,

"Aye, she gets that from _you_ don't she?"

Elsie gave her a playful, warning glance then handed her the matches, "Go on, light her candles. If we don't do it now we —"

A sharp rap at the front door startled them, even Jo, who looked away from the cake which had held her captive, nearly hypnotized, for at least the last quarter hour. Charles furrowed his brow.

"Whoever could that be?"

Elsie and Beryl exchanged a look, watching as Charles made for the front door. He opened it and took a step back, blinking at the sight of Lady Mary and Her Ladyship hovering uncertainly in the doorway. Behind them, a housemaid struggled with an armful of gifts, and a footmen behind her in a similar predicament.

"I hope we're not interrupting," Lady Mary said, although it was quite clear by her grin that she rather hoped they were, "We've got some gifts for dear Jo and—"

"Please, come in m'lady, your ladyship," Carson said, ushering them in, "May I take your coat?"

Elsie sighed, not so loud that he could hear but Beryl certainly did. She took Elsie's arm and gently lead her to the table, settling her down next to Daisy and leaning over to speak as close to her ear as she could manage.

"You know they mean well," she whispered, "But don't get your knickers in a twist — they won't overstay their welcome. . ."

Elsie nodded, "I know they won't. I just hate to see Charles play the butler when he's supposed to just be—"

" _Cha cha,"_ Beryl nodded.

"Precisely," Elsie said. Next to her, Jo began to fuss, having displayed a great deal more restraint than would be expected of a tiny child on her birthday. Elsie reached over and lifted her up from Daisy's lap, settling her into her own.

"We don't wish to intrude on your afternoon," Cora said, reaching up to take off her hat.

"You've not in the least, m'lady," Elsie said, "Please have a seat — there's certainly plenty of cake."

"I'm to assume this beautiful confection is your doing, Mrs Patmore?" Mary said, passing her coat to Carson and gliding over to the table, nodding approvingly toward the cake in the middle of the table.

"'tis, m'lady," Beryl said, trying not to beam _too_ brightly, "It's buttercream, of course, just the thing for tiny hands to make a mess of, I'm afraid."

Mary smiled, "I should think there's nothing more perfect for a first birthday than that."

"Please have a seat," Charles said, hanging up their coats and gesturing to the humble table, which was now quite crowded, "We were just about to light her candles and see what kind of mischief she's been planning all morning."

Cora grinned, gracefully lowering herself into a squeaky chair, "Jo, darling, you certainly have an impish little grin on your face today and rightly so."

Jo clapped, then looked up to Elsie for approval.

"Are you ready?" Elsie whispered, stroking the soft taffeta of the child's party dress, a hand-me-down from Miss Marigold. She looked up at Charles, "You've the matches?"

He nodded, patting his breast pocket.

"Anna would be so pleased," Mary said, somewhat suddenly. Elsie's head snapped up and she swallowed hard.

"Right then, here we are," Charles said unsteadily as he struck the match, "Daisy, I do think Jo will need help blowing out her candle so perhaps you—"

"I'm sorry, I—" Elsie said, passing Jo off to Beryl as she pushed her chair back from the table and stood, disappearing from the kitchen. Jo fussed, clambering onto Beryl's shoulder so she could reach for Elsie. As soon as she'd lost sight of her, she began to cry.

"Oh dear," Mary said, looking at her mother, "I didn't mean—"

"No, no, m'lady. You've not said anything untoward. Mrs Carson is, like we all are I suppose, aware of the day's bittersweetness and it's rather a lot to digest."

Cora sighed, "Perhaps we should go. We certainly didn't mean to put a damper on—"

"Please stay, m'lady." Beryl piped up, looking to Charles who merely raised his eyebrows curiously.

"Yes," Charles said slowly, "I'll — I'll only be a moment. Here, Daisy, go on. Help Jo blow out her candle and — Beryl, you can serve."

She nodded, not taking her eyes from him until he too disappeared from the room.

Mary turned to Cora, looking up at her from under one pointedly raised eyebrow, "It would be a pity to forgo such a good cake."

* * *

Charles tapped his knuckles against their bedroom door before stepping inside. He was momentarily a bit disoriented when he didn't find Elsie there. He knew she'd run off to shed her tears in private, but his instinct had proven incorrect. He listened, closing his eyes to listen harder, but he didn't hear her quiet sobs emanating from anywhere nearby. All he heard was Jo's tiny squeals and the far-off clapping of the lot he'd left downstairs.

He pulled the door closed and stepped back out into the hallway, his hands flexing nervously at his sides. As he surveyed the wall of doors, he noticed the door to the guest bedroom was cracked.

And all at once, he understood.

He strode deliberately toward it, pushing it open without knocking, and saw her sitting on the bed. Her back to the door, shoulders shaking, a stream of light from the window pouring in and illuminating what was left of her once complete auburn hair. He hovered in the doorway, letting his body lean against the frame a moment, listening hard at the tender, quiet words that came in broken strings through her tears.

 _"— our age, of course. But we're clever — oh, and dear Charles. It's lovely to see him with her. Of course I've wondered — what would it have been if we'd gone another way. If I'd bore his children — and, I would have, I think. I think I'd've wanted that, if we were younger. And I wouldn't have thought he'd be likely to feel the same, but seeing him with Jo I —"_

"I would have." he said, his voice a boom that echoed in the nearly empty room. He hadn't meant to speak, hadn't meant to so much as _think_ for fear that he'd interrupt. And that's precisely what he'd done, and his face grew hot with embarrassment and shame. She turned, slamming her palm against the quilt of the bed to steady herself, the other palm slapping her chest, feeling for her heartbeat. Surely the sound of his voice behind her had nearly stopped it.

He'd hung his head, waiting for her to rightfully castigate him for eavesdropping — when she didn't speak, her silence thrumming so loudly in his ears, he did look up, his face contorted in a sheepish wince.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "It was rude of me to run off. . ."

Charles sighed, "I know this day is not an altogether joyous one — for all of us, truly, but least of all you. This entire year has been. . ." he drifted off, unsure of what to say. Letting his hands rise up in defeat, he took a few steps toward the bed, gingerly sitting down on the edge of it so his back was to hers. He let his hand fall atop the blankets and waited to see if she'd take it.

She did, gently running the pad of her finger along his knuckles.

"I meant what I said," she whispered, her voice breaking, "You're so good with Jo and—"

"Elsie. . ."

"You are," she said, looking up at him, her eyes damp, "You're right — we've argued about it time and again —"

"I don't know everything that there is to know. No one does." he said gently, "But what I do know is that Anna and Mr Bates — _wherever they are_ — rest easy because Jo's with you. With us. _Here_. Not because we know much at all about child rearing. Not because we've much money or a grand house. Not because of what opportunities we'll afford her — but for the simple reason that we love her, and one another, very much."

Elsie reached up to gently pat the tears from her cheek, "You must think me foolish. Terribly sentimental."

"Not at all," he said, resting his hand against the small of her back, "I do wonder, though, if you might consider joining me downstairs. I'm a bit concerned there won't be any cake to speak of since Jo's had free reign in our absence."

Elsie giggled, sniffling a bit, "I can't reconcile this day. . .the bittersweetness of it all. It still seems like only yesterday. . ."

"I know," he said, gently folding her into his embrace. She shuddered against his chest, no tears left to shed, and rested a moment in the quiet of the room.

"Would you have, though?"

"What, darling?"

"Wanted to have children. If we were younger."

He sighed, resting his chin atop her head, "I admit, I've only been certain of it over this last year. Watching you with Jo. Having that experience, however forced, has given me news ways in which to love you. I can only imagine it would have been magnified if the baby we were caring for was truly ours."

Elsie turned slightly to look up at him, "I've been so consumed with grief and guilt that I hadn't even thought. . .but my love for you has changed as well. Perhaps I've not done enough to show you —"

"Don't fret," he said, chuckling lightly, "You do in ways you don't realize. And I feel it. I know it's there, beneath the sadness and the grief. I feel it, ever still."

A quiet moment passed between them, and they sighed in unison. Downstairs, Jo's giggles rose up into the rafters, making them both hum pleasantly.

"We should go down, " Elsie asked, letting her hand come to rest against his chest. He reached up to take her hand in his, slowing her.

"Do you remember, before Anna showed up on our doorstep that night, how you knew the baby would be born? You had. . .I don't know, a _premonition_ perhaps. I teased you mercilessly."

Elsie shrugged, "Women's intuition."

"Suppose it was more than that? Suppose love is transcendental? Maybe that's the tether that remains, a connection that cannot be broken even by death," he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them tenderly, "I certainly hope that's true. If I should go before you, I'd want to rest assured that you would never live an unloved day without me."

Elsie reached a hand up to gently cup his face, meeting his gaze and holding it, "I want to be assured you'll never live an unloved day _with_ me." she said, pressing her forehead against his.

Taking her face gently in his hands, he tipped his head down and gently kissed her; a promise that couldn't be spoken, only ever felt.


End file.
